Worded Woods

            I wandered into worded woods
            and stumbled onto Wordsworth's stone.
            The dead lie here, said I,
            in ice encased,
            interlaced
            with webs of time
            and fractured bone.
            And yet about the ancient tombs—
            a host of golden daffodils
            in splendor sprayed,
            with drops of frozen rain—
            rain that tells me of the worms
            who creep about the sleeper's frame…
            Oh Wordsworth, thought I,
            if only you could see
            that you live on in every rhyme
            tossed about the worded sea.