There’s no secret to poetry.
It can’t be forced out like toothpaste from a tube.
That just makes a mess.
You have to coax it sometimes,
Word by hesitant word,
Until it relaxes and opens and comes of its own.
When it blooms and hovering bees taste the nectar
When it ripens and its full aroma floods
When you feel the weight in your hand, on the air
That’s when you know it has burst forth of its own accord,
Willingly, eagerly, uncontained
And it’s no longer about you
Or the effort,
Or the desire.
Your control is an illusion. The words are eternal, and they’re not yours.
You can borrow them for a while,
Roll them around in your mouth and spit them out,
Teach them to dance your way,
Dress them up or dirty them,
But they’re not yours.
In the end, you set them free
To soar again.
photo credit rhett maxwell