Leaves to tree

(It is easier to think,” wrote Keats to John Taylor, “what Poetry should be than to write it — and this leads me on to another axiom. That if Poetry comes not as naturally as the Leaves to a tree it had better not come at all.)

It had better not come
Unless as needle leaves

As of windy eucalyptus
Scraping ocean shores,

Its feet stealing others’
Moisture at their roots,

Its toes barely touching
An earth- secret bowels.

Poems take a leaf from
A day , an hour, a foot,

A spoonful of a thought,
From life beating away.

A poem is a day of night
A minute stealing time

A leaf to the windy tree
Stealing new moisture

From the earth’s below
And wind space above.

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