When my poems escaped me
Like ducks from a broken pen,
I did not chase them like the
Young poets from the village.
Instead, I finished my bottle of wine,
And wandered the hills drunken
And free from care,
Where I discovered my poems
Hiding in the rocks and trees,
And a brook singing a song
About a foolish old poet
Looking for his lost poems.
-Thomas L. Vaultonburg
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