The
swirling world so often throws
A twist in the path of the poet.
A trick to trick his feet in their
progression.
A clump of roots rise up
And the artist grows entangled
He tumbles as a weed blown gently
sideways.
He rolls, he tumbles slowly
As the grass accepts his body.
The blades running through his fingers.
Fibrous green beneath his nails.
The smell of virgin leaves
Wafts up through his nostrils.
Their chloroplasts dance gayly with the
sunlight.
“O you funny blades,” he thinks
“You neither shave nor stab me."
You hold the ground in place with such
persistince.
I'm sure your roots know intimately
The worms who live below.
Could you tell me all you've learned
about their culture?”
He thinks of little tunnels wiggled in
the earth,
Which the worms can sleep or talk or sing
or think in.
Ponder to themselves
The purpose of their existence.
Develop myths that explain their brown
surroundings.
Perhaps anguished or accepting of
incurable doubts.
Yes the artist's fateful tumble
Becomes his very means
Of extracting art from the tricky earth
below.
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