It seems my poetry is coming
Up through my feet as I walk,
And when I cannot get out in the weather
And enjoy a good path,
My pen dries up of ink.
My poetry withers indoors.
If I have more than a few days without sun –
Like a potato in the cellar –
the eyes will still bud with nub-like images,
And they will grow;
But instead of green sturdy shoots,
Only white spindly branches
Reach blindly for the light.
Poetry Comes Up Through My Feet
