My stalk like pen
moves in wind
like corn on a summers eve.
Words call tickling air in breath
as pen takes a stance.
Corn husks feed the hunger
that grows to plant this moment.
A moment where poetry is within

And ink will mount stallion white page
as if pen needs to catch the words.
Words to be corralled inside a trotting verse.

Perhaps later I will sit by fire
inside my tire
and hear foal poem neigh--
I say with hooray.