“To the Forgotten Poet”
But perhaps— you are not forgotten. Not truly.
Your voice threads the dusk between radio static,
slips between keystrokes, hums in the silence
after a song we don’t know why we love.
Yes, the world dances now with more urgent partners:
with technology, utility, and news cycles that do not mourn or remember.
But still— in quiet corners your longing sprouts
like wild violets in a parking lot crack.
We who read beneath fluorescents
still look out windows because of you.
We who cry without knowing what for,
do so in your dialect.
You were not meant to be the celebration.
You were the echo afterward— the part that stays.
The garlands might wilt. But the roots are
underground and unsupervised. And still growing.
.