Succumbing to
Undulation provoked by
Cunning words of a poet, I
***
Under the surface,
Loving
Every
Nourished word like
Treasure

Poems move in currents
changing speed and
splitting ways,
and we watch.
The rolling faire,
the words they share
leave beauty behind,
ignorant,
understood by one;
intentions only guessed
while images we digest
from origin unknown.
We read, we take,
we contemplate.
But unless traversing upstream,
over boulders,
holding rocks,
growing tired as we near the point of pain
we never see its start.
The water breaks through stone,
alone...
And where,
only the poet knows.

Where is the poem,
the one I culdn't feel?
Escaped, like a flock of gulls
when all that's left is shells.
The mussels gone
or rotted
by heavy salty air;
exposed like a heart
to a fisherman
who never eats his catch
but hasn't the sense
to toss it in the water.
I am a shell,
with nothing succulent
to share.

I know how to recognize a desperate soul
    Wood for our fire
      To keep our family warm
        In winters cold
          What is the sacrifice
            Dear tree
              You captured the sun
                Drinking the rain
                  Roots deeply in soil
                    Mother earth
                     Ashes to dust
                        Cinders to rust
                           Reaching for heaven
                             Only to become
                               The god of fire