The Summer of a Thousand Poems

More than a hundred mornings
Overlooking or beside the long lake
To savor the privilege,

Or the random good fortune,
Or the insistently sought
Goal of being alive here—

What have you done with yourself?
No really, where have you been?
Out there, in the dark and light,

The peaceful and violent,
Generally unjust world,
You can almost sense them all,

Your family, your cousins
Unaware, no relation,
Sharing few of your concerns—

Thousands, millions of poets
With thousands of languages.
What have you done well by them?

You imagine them, best you
Can, projecting memories
To conjure them, condemning

You for not composing lines
That might reduce violence
Might discourage injustice,

Might make this a better place.
Millions of poets, millions
Among eight billion humans,

And here breathes one, tiny bones,
Heavy head, end of summer,
Waiting for dawn by the lake.