I do not know how to write a poem.
they wait, faithful
Like the trees and the tide
If only I had the faith of the sycamore
Remembering that the poem comes
through the ease and the unease, the joy
and the pain, the all.
They travel along some secret stream,
glide over rocks
gurgling to the song of the cicada.
I do not know how to do what I want to do.
it waits, faithful
If only I could remember the way the soft grass
hugs my wild and precious self.
This is how I will come to do what I do,