One day, mountains will form
From imprints where my feet
Met wet sand and marshland.
But I won’t see them rise.
They are not for me.
They are for the skein of geese
I saw this morning in an unbalanced,
The rabbit that hopped in front
Of my path—its grandchildren will frolic
Along the mountain’s rocky trails.
And the children I read to, they will
Transform poems into songs
As they ascend the mountain.
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen