Seeking information on the rose
I studied her in books of prose.
When the artificial rage abated
I found my rose domesticated.
I could not find her in the wood.
In a glass, by a curtain, she stood.
The one I loved is no longer wild;
She is by furniture beguiled.
The world grows in a flower pot.
If you would learn what poetry is,
Never assume this is what it is—
Study only what poetry is not.
A syllable from a simple voice
Was my initial choice.
The hollering of a dog,
The repose of moss on a rotting log,
Cluttered up my mental list.
After I read you a poem, we kissed.
The beautiful grows in a flower pot.
If you would learn what poetry is,
Never assume this is what it is—
Likely it is what poetry is not.