So many poems are dying in me.
Too busy to set them down, as a budding
leaf or petal or a seed occurs,
a bit of root, a twig - there's just
no chance to give it ground. And so,
it rots
undeterred I suppose.
And sinks deep,
collapsing its spread
and unnamed parts,
relinquishing itself
into the loam.
The deep rich dark
in which all things
inevitably find their home,
from whence they spring.
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