and the fine musicians
bestowed with the honour
of accenting your wisdom
you spill your honeyed words
into our eager consciousness
s
erenely smiling
like a holy man
In your seventy-fifth year
you sing your psalms and stories
with the voice of a God
but soothing now, no questions asked
but an acceptance
that there are
no answers
You were the crutch, t
he mainstay
of my thoughtful youth
a comforting validation
that someone more austere than I
could strip away veneer
and see the sewers and the sunsets
the sinner and the sainted
and cosset them in blankets
of words
rendering them timeless
Thank you, Leonard.
