by Glen Martin Fitch
Ideas sprout.
Words shoot out of my pen
like unsown seeds
that never knew a hand
but lie about
to crack the untilled land
with desperate roots,
who know their how and when,
emerging,
digging fast and deep
and then a stalk up soars.
Ere leaf and bloom expand
I cut them back
again and yet again.
Some favor weak willed vines,
some value weeds.
Their pens are free to roam
as they compose.
I plan. I prune. I graft.
This poet breeds each precious bud
as if a perfect rose.
Curse not the barren branch,
the fallow yard.
To write is easy.
Not to write is hard.
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ABOUT THE POET ~
Glen Fitch is a 16th Century poet lost in the 21st Century. Born near Niagara Falls, educated in the Catskills, thirty years on the Monterey Bay he now lives in Palm Springs. Retail not academics has paid the bills. Someday he will finish Spenser's "The Fairie Queene."
Last updated August 23, 2011