To Miss a Lummox
Blue is true, as are words,
handed, gifted, by wisdom itself.
Old and wise, a familiar tune,
and he fit the bill, the lummox.
My West Virginian flame
only knew famous last words,
and the tips of the glacier,
were but a mile too short.
Humbleness befell me,
like every robin nesting above
the limbs on memory lane,
just off the beaten path of Maine.
Too late, and I never even asked,
where this nameless library was,
as surely, its books must be ancient
but charming, and rustic.