Inheritance Poem by Whit Leyenberger

I have nothing new to say to you,
For what humanity is there left
That hasn’t been pinned down and preserved
Like a beautiful and delicate insect
By the wordsmiths of the ages
How can I improve on what has already
Been put so simply and gracefully
Using words and terms they may
Have invented themselves
So I will not fight against the tides
Of times but allow the ebb to aid
My flow.
The written word is the voice of past
Generations echoing on, only, the
Reverberations don’t always fade, but grow
Steadily louder and purer as they find root
Inside a fertile heart, they flourish and spin
With empathetic inertia until these words
Are reborn into the world again: The same
Glowing Phoenix burning brighter and cleaner
Then ever before.
This is how we grow and how we remain
For words connect us to the ancestors
And prove that we haven’t changed from them
But have been simply blessed with more accumulation
For how else could a man centuries dead who knows
Nothing of my life or culture know, to the last drop
Of blood, the full contents of my hope? How could
He word my soundless aspirations from behind
Uncrossable time unless it is true:
We are eternal You and I
Not only through creation
But by protecting and nourishing
This legacy of compassionate ink
That which will remain long after
The stars in their sleepy observance
Have blinked out leaving nothing but
Silence