Committed to Memory

The poets of my youth
Are still alive,
Committed to memory
When it was fertile soil.
Their hands are tired and stiff,
Yet they go on scribbling–
Determined to outlive me,
And, most of all each other.

They have spoken to me
In moments high and low;
And they will be there
Even when my
Mother’s name has faded.
When others have a band of angels
Suspended in celestial unison,
Treading air above their beds,
I will have a band of poets,
Committed to me
As I once committed them
Bartering in conflicting rhythms
For remnants of my soul.