poets of my life

My poet-friend talks to me once more,
leading me into alleyways long unseen,
taking me by the hand he guides my wavering step
onto a cracked pavement where we, the blind philosophers, spoke once.

My poet-friend talks to me once more,
hinting at unforgotten lands where we weaved magical stories
of the future to never come, once. Her step is steady though her
hands shake and we remember earthen cups once held by steady fingers.

My poet-friend talks and I listen for there is none
else to talk with. It shimmers through the gentle
blades of home and strikes memory-bells of yore:
its breath is silent and the noise sublime, a bond lost before the knowing of bonds unkind.

My poet-friend walks outside,
the step of an old partner making a mockery
of current climes.
My poet-friend sees no snow on the ground
and no dampness in the grass, the dry earth
clings not within the toes that still hang on for life.
The common act of living is so hard for this kind --
my simple poet-friends live for life.