a poem wrote me
almost before I knew.
my hand my mind my pen
just a muse
for sentiment that oozes
like sap from a tree
after Winter harsh and cold
has just released the grip
of icy fingers
melting into Spring.
a poem wrote me
while hungry earth
beneath my feet
waited for the sugar
nourishing seeds
growing the flowers
to prove that life goes on.
my life goes on
because a poem writes me
still.