Or What's A Poet For

It's kind of you to furrow paths between the lines,
where trees of waving limbs bid us enter
fog and mist that bear your radiance,
a while ago in frost was sheathed.

It's generous of you to muse upon our pale existence,
and to that end, light us votive candles. We are grateful,
and forgive your sometimes crazy metaphors.

You have opened stanza gates and ivy grills. You allow sea and sky
to further flood hidden meanings, that you dispatch as if by angel.
You do not fret if they arrive. Content you are, that like a message in a bottle,
a random verse might find a reader..

Thus, suffer us to recite you simple
as we release our cares to earth like over ripened fruit.
The needed backward glance we'll risk, and then read on.