pottery

poetry comes naturally

like a drop

of sweat

or a fly

in your

drink
on
a hot
summers

night




poetry can

never be forced

pressured

squeezed

nor stretched

without

leaving

obvious

traces of

violence


poetry drips

from fresh

green leaves

after summers

rain

and from

the tiny mouths

of moths

so delicate

only a trained

ear may

hear


poetry

in its purest

form is

like water

to a

dry mouth

and food

to a

starving

child


poetry

flows naturally

from the well

of inspiration

that runs

beneath

and beyond

the reaches

of space

and  mind