It’s the anxious part of me,
working to find a home for
my thoughts. Cataloging single
words while they circulate like
carousel horses waiting for the run
to the barn; verses change
the menu of how I speak.
I avoid the company of well wishers,
praising the moment, ignoring the
spirit. They feast on the work of
others while empty on original.
Real listening turns the lock, exposing
creative roots where it becomes a rush of
water, feeding the hand and then the page.
