gentle giant

i am the proverbial giant
climbing the ladder of poetry
with a hundred clichés 
stolen one by one
from my last plaintive song
and unaware that i've grown
redundant

a sea parts for me when
i stick out my mighty cane
it catches lightning bolts
and glowworms in the dark
my power is in the correctness
of my attitude towards
the world

what am i now if not gentle
where have i last seen
a sunset sink into the sea
or picked plump berries
or jumped into a cold river
where i was momentarily
healed?

what is the last thought
in my head that i can savor
and save for another poem
in a cavalcade of rain
when my lack of fresh ideas
leaves me gasping for
charged air?

Thanks to Mawr Gorshin for the connection.