His Poem

His poem was a pebble,
dropped into a well,
it fell,

It’s falling still

His poem was a little ship
upon the sea set sail,
unsunk by storm,
no harbour found,

it sails still

His poem was a little seed
breathing soft within a shell,
keep it well,
it waits to bloom
in fertile soil,

His poem was the word
made flesh,
the reconcile,
the peace-be-still,
his poem trashed
the gates of Hell,
freed some slaves,
waits,
enthroned,
until--