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The poet knows, that in the act of creation,
The vague inkling, the germ, the seed, of the poem
Is more important than the poem.
The shadowy idea, ready to move
Across the manifestation of articulate love,
Is more unsettling than the poem.
When the fire of inspiration has cooled
Into leafy poetry,
And maybe everyone will be fooled,
Your trees will no longer be like the trees
Which burn—even in landscapes, wintry and sleepy.
But whoever likes trees might like your poetry.
But this is not why you write your poetry.
You write for the birth of—
Not the poem, but love
Of the poem, not yet itself—this is creation.
And if you love the child in the womb
More than the child—until the child lives, and is gone—
Then everything you love, the child, the poem, the idea,
May rise up, singing, from the tomb.
