Poets

Poets are where you find them. I found one sweeping the street, as for God's sake Beyond my door. He wore white garments—we'll call them white— Had a brown broom, and pushed a cart. Probably he didn't know he was a poet. Or what poets are for. He touched his somewhat white cap and said, "Hey, lady! Ease sideways a little! There's a sorta crazy beetle there By yer shoe." "O—there?" I asked. "Yes," he pointed, "there! It has rainbow colors on its back." "So it has," I agreed, peering. "Ay," he nodded, "bugs are comin' out these days. Reckon maybe I oughta sweep 'em up, But somehow it don't seem fair. One a them little lady-bugs lit on my hand— The old-fashioned kind, y' know." "I know," I assented. "Had two black spots on its red wings," he explained. "My land! It took me back to when I was a kid. I says 'Lady-bird! Lady-bird! Fly away home,' I says. But I stopped there, fer, lady, why add 'Yer house is afire—yer children alone,' An' worry a little fairy thing like that?" "Why indeed?" I echoed. "One acquires merit, as said the old Lama of Kim— By considering the lowly." He seemed momentarily puzzled, then continued. "The wild geese is wingin' north, lady, I saw a great 'V' of them against the moon Last night. Makes a man kinda hanker to go along— His ancient face lit up— "Wings," he said gently, "wings is a nice idea;— Wings and a song—that means a bird,— Ay—wings an' a song,— Well, good day, lady, I've this yer street to sweep." He waved, and pushed the cart on. I looked after him, mistily. Poets—poets also are where you find them.