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He’d plunk his poetry upon the desk And, scrawling starlight-white across the green, Illuminate the rhythms arabesque Or zephyristic, raising rant or paean From feeble prose to poetry divine, Breathing relief into the words that ran From pen to page, through age, by chalk-drawn plan, Plucking aeolian heart-strings of the mind. And now his volume is forever closed And shelved in the great library above, Where it will wait with all great works composed By man, while I, inspired by all his love Of poetry, breathe life into a prayer That God will read him to me when I’m there. 
Written July 21, 2023 in memory of my mentor and poetry professor, Dr. Lee M. Johnson, on learning of his passing from this life into the next.