The Stranger
The mysterious visitor who has marked Edgar Allan Poe’s birthday each year with flowers and cognac failed to show this morning, causing no small upset among devoted Poe fans. This is my take on that.
Once upon a morning dreary, as they huddled cold but cheery
Waiting near the graveyard gates, a darkened scene in Baltimore
There they shivered, even quivered, ’till dawn slivered
to see delivered loving tokens just as every year before.
For sixty years, but now no more.
Flowers there were to remember, poet lost that long November
placed there by a special member of that group who him adore.
Cognac carried, for a toast, shared each winter with that ghost
By the moment’s hooded host. Only this and nothing more.
Perhaps now past and nevermore.
In years to come they still will wait, by that cemetery gate.
On that very special date, and hope the toaster comes once more.
Hood in place and drink in hand. By the gravestone there to stand
the morning then his to command, and speak with Poe, there evermore.
A simple rite. Yet so much more.
Read “The Raven” by Edgar Allan Poe here.
