Go, poet, for the inner

Unable to find words
A poet can but point
Give clues
Yet the meaning
Is beyond finger
Beyond poet

Poem is not the end of poet
Nor of making
The thing makes
The experience touches
Poet and hearer
And worlds
Unexpected

Children beget children
Beyond our hopes
They sit in our laps
Before wriggling off
To go their ways

Go, poet, for the inner
Call forth from our compost
Rich black soil

:- Doug.

Published in: Conversations | on September 21st, 2010 | No Comments »

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