Poem in the Wild

Today’s draft is another attempt to write about writing. What is interesting only to me, and therefore not shared hear, are the multiple pages of freewriting that stumbles its way into a poem draft. In my journal, I can almost see myself writing my way into this poem a bit like going down a twisting water slide.

I came across this poem

in its own environment, standing,

painted in weather-faded multicolor.

I circled it.

And circled it,

looking for the way in.

I tapped it with my fingertips,

knocked at its walls,

nudged it gently with one foot.

All remained silence in the still Winter air.

Nothing for it but to burrow underground

swim through the earth and up into it

from underneath.