Journey for J. Wagoner

The poem lifted across the wind,
Over the feathery mares tails
And floated down the river
Of dreams.
It drifted down the mountainside
Where no one could see
And slid across the golden moon
Of memory.
The poem sang in the laughter
Of children running in the park.
It left the lips of longing lovers 
Huddled from the rain
And rose with the sun, 
Dappling ancient trees.
It kissed bending flowers
And echoed from the belfry.
Contented,
It whispered lovingly
Into the ear of the poet,
Deciding to rest 
With strokes of blackened ink.
 
– Burt Baldwin, Ignacio