Friday, January 3, 2020

A POET

is hardly an author 

the way a maker 

of forests is— 

 

a black squirrel, spitting acorns, 

a brown finch,

shedding seeds. 

 

Then again, in a nutshell:

it's a relative cinch, 

 

to grow something complex 

as an oak tree 

 

from a blueprint 

or sketch— 

 

but it's hell 

collapsing it back 

to the acorn again.