I'm going back to the place where
Poems are born
where I first thought a thought to
write about, worthy of print and
text
worthy of my time I spread so
thinly

I return to the place where
poems are born, in
thought and in
Existence

in a moment's breath, a hope, a fear of
losing, love of
gaining

This is the place where
Poems are born
Between my hand and a piece of
Paper-
persuaded by the small
breaths of time spent
seeing more than I
have time to
Paint or care to
craft

In a moment's shudder of not-knowing, persevering, maybe not believing in praying-
I don't know anything

Except that I am the place where
poems are born