Print is dead.
No one reads or writes poetry (except for the "creative" people at writer's conferences.)
Long gone is the acceptability of Longfellow, Blake and the Shelleys--not to mention Emily D.
OK, now you are rolling your eyes and saying "Whatever"...
This one is called:
Night Music for Small Ears and Feet
Warm summer evenings
were cooled by canyon breezes
you sang to me
On steel strings, calloused fingers found folk songs,
Dylan tunes and lullabies
Now I know what you played
Then it was all just music to me
You smiled when I dance around your chair
