commemoration

we want a lawn around the stand of words
of simple white imaginary grasses
in the forest of letters roost dangerous birds
who watch below as the cold time passes
the poet is the oldest form of mage
performing charms and giving form to thought
the power is in the symbols on the page
without their stark construction there is naught
but images you say are transitory
they will not last the way that mountains do
they've no effect on hoping or on worry
they matter only to a precious few
that's true i guess but does not signify
we do our thing without ever asking why