Friday, January 3, 2020

A POET

is hardly an author 
the way 

a maker 
of forests is—

black squirrel 
carrying, spitting, shedding,

a few finches 
shitting indiscriminate seeds.

But it's a relative cinch, 
I think, to grow 

something complex 
as an oak tree

from a blueprint 
or sketch—

and it's hell 
collapsing 

it back
to the acorn again.