son poem

a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
if i should die, think only this of me
listen to the sounding sea
i fill this cup
from our hidden places
when i go back to earth
there was never a sound beside the wood but one
one by one, like leaves from a tree
no prey am i of poor thoughts
as a naked man i go
like eagles on up high
do you remember
she might have known it in the earlier spring