Among the dried autumn leaves
lies the grave of a master poet
Why are they still in pursuit of the dog?
Let the poor thing too rest in peace.
Seasons and landscapes change
as do people and tastes
A classic poem can endure all
Including autopsies on its soul.
Did the poet write of a lover
or was the lover a poet
Was Dandelion a dress or a weed?
Dissecting her poems like guinea pigs.
She laughs in her grave, an enigmatic poet
Edited into posthumous sanity today
Richly bound her books-a collector’s item
Her poems-masterpieces, they say.
Why must a poet rationalise her thoughts
She pities them now she is dead and done
tolerating their earnestness to master her tone
Yet won’t they ever leave her poor dog alone?
So I thought once, yet now I think
when you and I are under those leaves
I’ll not be sad if they maul our tender words
but rather glad that they read it at least.