I am trying to write an ode,
today when I feel like a toad.
A pretty and nice toad, still -
toads don't write odes.

Keats was a prince
who did not need a kiss.
Like Buddha, he simply
sat under a tree,
the ode sang out - one, two, three, -
although Keats did have wishes,
for kisses.

I and other fledgling poets, -
tomorrow I'll be
a pretty and nice bird, -
need never fear.
Just hear, hear and follow,
hear and follow, hopping,
flopping, flapping, flying,
walking, whatever mode,
down the road.
This bodes we will find our tree
to sit under.

Then, if we desire,
we can write odes
like fire in freezing darkness
or rain in a dusty, dreary draught
filling the rivers with fishes
and may be, even, our shade
with kisses.