LEWIS BUTLER TAYLOR - 1925 - 2014
My writing drips from off my pen,
or, on rare occasions, pours,
as case may be.
While either betides I hardly sleep,
but hold my pail to catch such drippings as I can.
I do not turn the spigot on,
I do not know who mans the tap,
but since each drop may be the last,
I try to save whatever I can
before the tap runs dry.
LT- from "Author's Preface" to Leaked From the Pail, 2003, edited/ published by Lovepat Press, Benton Arkansas
~~
PET BURIAL
This little grave I dig will hold
the dachshund form of my shadow
for the last fourteen years.
Each spade of earth rekindles another memory
. . . .
I dig to rock.
His place dug here
is like the hole left in my life.
I ponder whether my going to join him
will leave as large a hole in any life.
I wrap him in his blanket
and bid a teary goodbye,
each of my tears mourning loss,
but also my own mortality.
LT - Ibid, p. 8.
LIFE TREE
Autumn
years are golden?
Autumn leaves are golden
just before they sere, to fall from
the tree.
LT - Ibid, p. 28.
PASSAGE
Autumn
spreads sere brown leaves
on pasture, field and lawn.
Fall moves from then to then. Thus, too,
we go.
LT - Ibid, p. 39.
Rest in Peace, my dear friend Lew.
