A REFUGE FOR POETS WHO WRITE IN THE LYRIC TRADITION,
WITH RHYME AND METER, WITH OR WITHOUT MUSIC
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HERE IS A PLACE
Here is a place for me to live,
Alone by the waterside
In a clapboard cottage painted red;
A beautiful place to hide,
With seldom another soul in sight
But a fishing boat where the fishes bite,
Where the river drains the watershed
And the great blue herons glide.
Here is a place for me to love
Until my life is done,
As sea gulls love the barren rocks
And snakes all love the sun,
As bullfrogs love the falling rain
And mountain goats love steep terrain,
And shepherds love their gentle flocks
And God loves everyone.
Here is a place for me to die,
Though death is not what people say.
These words inscribed by fountain pen
Are like the sun at the end of day,
Or pollen gathered on the shore,
Or seeds upon the forest floor;
My spirit then will rise again
When God calls me away.
Syracuse, New York, 2000
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