Songs Unsung

Sylvia at

Sylvia at

What the tree has left unsaid
gradually retreats into its roots
where in the darkness the poetry
it never voiced sleeps root`bound
in couplet & quintain unrhymed
leaves fallen but never unfurled
within buds burnt by March ice

The forest’s floor is carpeted
with the sheaves of poems sung
whose glory we can readily recite
when passion still flows in the vein
but when winter raps at the door
it is the song that’s still unsung
stirs within the old poet’s soul


About Peter Notehelfer

I'm a retired people person who now finds the time to watch the little details of the world without worrying about being watched by anyone . . . I live on an Island north of Seattle with my wife named Ellen, a yellow dog named McGee, a yellow cat named Gatzby, and four fine chickens . . . I read fiction, bake bread, smoke salmon, and fish whenever the weather allows . . . Oh, and yes, I try to write a poem every day simply to avoid senility!
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