Spring's ascendancy
Dismisses frosty mornings
As the earth softens.
The poet rides alone and hard along the alchemic trail,
trapped inside their own construct,
a perpetual motion machine of the edit.
But there comes a point where there is no more chaff to discard,
no more lead to be sacrificed in the crucible of revision.
There comes a time when they must announce to the world,
"Here it is - my newborn poem."
And the world more often than not replies,
"Ahh. Aren't they...oh! Erm, such an interesting face."
Bamboo is the noisiest wood
You can hear it growing, hark!
Yet the flowering dogwood tree
Has the most silent bark.
A metaphor for life itself; ignore the appearance of the cup, it's always what's inside that counts. ☕