Carrie Lee Ferguson


I do not know how to write a poem. The words they wait, faithful Like the trees and the tide The sun. 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. The answers I’ve been seeking are carried not on the intellect. They travel along some secret stream, glide over rocks gurgling to the… Read More