January 20th, 1961

It had snowed the night before the poet stepped slowly to the stage,
the reflection of cold sun bright white over marbled lawns.
Infant words of dedication newly written were gripped in his hands,
still unfamiliar within the voice and hardly known to the heart.
In the harsh glare of the sun and snow the words began to falter,
and the attempt was soon abandoned for more familiar and hallowed ground.
An older verse known without the need for sight now obscured
was as a gift given outright from deeper within than memory.
With ease and command won over a generation of distinction,
old words were made new again.

I listened to the recounting of that day forty five years ago,
the radio half heard as I drifted through thoughts of rain.
Implication of skill and memory beyond the superhuman suffused
the account evoking modern age heroes slaying fell beasts with words.
Brilliant qualities surely did waft through the crisp air in profusion,
but they merely masqueraded for one virtue poised far above the rest.
It was love moved his memory when old eyes could no longer see,
memory etched and exalted making beloved words fall free.
Love for words once written remembered,
love for an art a life time devoted.

Heroic is a word often cheaply bestowed today,
along with love bandied about like childrens' dispensable toys.
In reality one leads to the other, intertwined in their meaning
with depth beyond describing words, beyond poetry and song.
Perhaps we too could recite on those things that we love most dearly;
the shape of a face, the turn of a tune, the moon and luminous eyes.
All become clear again when moved by deep devotion,
or when the cool sun in our eyes makes poets of us all.