Posterity

Not so much a vocation for art

As an impatience of all honest

Trades, counseled the cautious, famed writer

In reply to the query, Why write?

You smile at the impatience of all

Honest answers to such a query.

To stir a disturbance in the waves,

To get under the cold cuddlestones,

To rearrange the channel through which

Mind, locally, passes on its way

To the wanderer-consuming sea. . . .

This shift in the passageway of thoughts

Through a minor meander that risks

An oxbow for its posterity.