i dream that i can write them grown,
to color and brazen bloom.
words like rain offer sudden life
to deep and buried truth.
drought has no place here in dream-dirt,
all is fecund soil.
the heat of plowing fingers, warms,
rewards the constant toil.
the sweat is sweet.
it sings of spring.
surprises emerge from weeds.
in dream and wake, roots grab hold.
stories lie ripe, begging to be told.
it’s time to go a’pickin’.
i took part in a little chat with the writers at storybleed last night and was inspired by their talk of experimentation and finding the edge. i always feel a phony writing poetry, like i can’t get past the simple metaphor and find that edge. so here’s to searching and pushing and prodding. cheers.