The poem sprouts
from the compost
of the mind.
People, events, desires
memories, hopes,
dreams, disappointments,
all mixed and turned,
watered with imagination,
until something
catches and clutches,
pale and fragile,
and begins to grope
slowly for the light.
Coax it,
nurture it,
tend it.
Pour your soul
and your love
into it.
Bring all that is you
to the task.
Perhaps a poem
will blossom.
- mce
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