Sitting cross legged on earth, in the wilderness alone quiet,
I meditate,on the single sprawling tree, in her poetic best,
verdant and robust, I wouldn't fail to see how ceaselessly
she did strive, in reinventing herself moment after moment.
A bird, dedicating her song to the evening's evanescence,sings on,
like nothing else ever matters to her, even after it's end,
as she has known her inner-self better, by making her songs
more relevant, each time than before,and than the songs of others,
without any reason particular, more by a compulsion mysterious.
While delving in to the depth of that compulsion, Marianne Moore,
I feel present in my mind, she is the tree fighting the creative battle,
not to dislike her own creation,the bird with persistent compulsion.
"Poetry" Marianne Moore once said "Ï too dislike it"She refers to a kind of poetry neither honest nor sincere, but has found approval by virtue
of it's obscurity.
