Get Dirty

Work. Grow.

-

They move like worms sometimes

through mud and dreams and shade.

Once seen they dive away

and glimpse is all you get.

Then follow this one down?

That possibility

of poetry found…?

-

Then it’s digging, searching,

hard work with the shovel,

fingernail dirt detail,

love labors and failing.

A chance it’s hollow;

just a been done tunnel

less a decent maker

of an inspiration.

-

I’ll just plant a tree,

water it a little,

maybe sweetness ripens?

Think of tasty fruit flesh

and do no writing –

let nature have all say

from where the spark maybe….

-

and I’ll get nothing done:

not my sweet peach in sun,

nor poems that love the soil.

The worms and how they toil

to speak inspiration.

How lost we’d be

-

without those hidden ones.