what began as year-long challenge has become perpetual until further notice
i was going
to write a poem
nothing of forests or seas
or trees of any variety
so i wrote
lying down on my back
pencil wood sharp
drawing words from the cream of the page
as i burned it across the paper
windfall piled around me
unripe or bruised
all of it necessary
most of it discarded
found the dark of the bruise sweetest
and the poem grew wild
turned from me and nodded
with the day’s sun
i let it
out of its year-long
free of quips and quirks
and ended here today
spent of garden metaphor
in time for lunch.
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