My consciousness drifts
as I move on soil
tweaked by a poets walk.

Their steps imprinted
in Mothers soil
as seeds to grow within.

Whitman tickles me
so I may create visions grand.

Thoreau echoes,
as I put pen to paper
and echo while sitting at pond.

Poe speaks in caverns of mind
giving perspective of the dark bird
that whispers “Nevermore.”

And Dickinson whistles in wind
so self anchors
to born a masterpiece.

Yes I am blessed,
to walk in a writers shoes.
To scribe from inside heart
where flowers grow,
and poets of past live.