Classic Poem

Here there are rarely things one rarely sees.
Nothing to swell the dictionary for.
Trees and poppies, rosy intimacies.
A crab that treads a stream or walks ashore.
Never a sudden noise except the crows.
Small bird songs and insects and toads until
Ears with little further to hear must close;
Or if they're still open close to the whippoorwill.

Let those who love the ocean dredge the ocean,
Or those who praise the Rockies, find new peaks.
The itch for progress never set me in motion.
I love a man the more the less he speaks.
Just to be able to touch the things I see
Brings me one step closer to poetry.