by Gus Gustafson
In his upward years the Good
Gray Poet had visitors who spoke
from the heart about how
Walt embraced all as if all struck
blessed chords in his open nature.
The good gray one could be
taken aback by such praise,
saying his nature contained
evasions and secrets that he himself
could hardly hold out to the gaze
of a stranger, even an allay.
One day, with one such supporter,
one from England no less, Walt
likened his way at least at times,
to a hen walking along a hedgerow
as if unconcerned with any ambition
beyond a grain to snap up
and swallow, but then of a sudden
darting into a cleft in the hedge
that caught her eye. There she laid
her surprise, hiding it smoothly,
and trotting on letting nature take
the next steps on its fateful journey.
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