A pencil writing the first word of a poem
(and the last word of a poem)
is like the spring shoots pushing through the soil and stone,
cutting through the leafy detritus of winter...
Each letter spun
stirs a curling green momentum to some unknown becoming.
Each space between words
breathes the resonant promise of fruit and flower...
The writer sows on page what no gardener can cultivate in the most fertile ground
and tends the spindly sprung tendrils
to become the perfect harvest.
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