My first poem did not come to me
Shrouded in darkness
Not shuttered with wisdom
Nor carved with sharpness.

It walked with others
Hazily defined
It breathed my sorrows
It glimpsed my mind.

My first poem did not leap
Across the abyss
‘Stead wand’ring through meadows
Tracing Earth’s kiss.

It read all old memories
Built a new bridge
It called to the past
It raced through the mist.

My first poem was imperfect
Shapeless in ruin
Thin bone of poems proper
But extremely human.