The Archivist Poem by Roger Taber

I am she who feels her way
to dreams, sees to it that moon and stars
shine love’s guiding light
through layers of darkness to reveal
what’s real in the world,
conveyed in but a word here, gesture there,
making a poor show of drawing
on feelings all our senses attempting
to convey even to the pragmatist

I am she who lends a shoulder
to cry on, ear to confide in, takes caution
thrown to the wind and returns it
as a kindness, suggesting we reconsider
pitting human nature
against its other selves, risk losing face
in the eyes of the Old Man
looking down at us and wondering why
this obsession with mortality

I am she to whom they turn
where flames of passion threaten to devour
till all is over and done,
gone to ashes where we would have left
a blaze of memory to comfort
and leave us feeling secure, whatever
the Grim Reaper may have in mind;
no match, he, for me, who has a rare way
even with the stuff of nightmare

Come day, make time for a culture of nurture
I’ll archive each night, who am Earth Mother