Birds often search trees
and scractch the dirt for breakfast.
This calling is work.

Poem sometimes rise soft
from the mind written
before ink lays on paper.

Often we hoe and rake words
hoping to sprout a rhyme,
image, from a stone hard page.

Every sound teaches
us how to recarve ourselves
and appreicate everyword.


The Long Lie

When you must say
What you aren’t allowed
But the words remain
A bit of phlegm in your throat
Then what is left but silence.
I love and yet its confession
Is just something that must hang
And sweep along the ground
Gathering dirt but not dust.
Wait, why doesn’t it gather dust?
Dust is an image of disuse
And lies are always in use.
The withholding is a battery
Of nerves and tension. Knowing
Waiting with what can dissolve
By being revealed.