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The poet will ask the creatures of the wood:
“Do you love her?” and their answers
will be more proof that poems
need not be written. “But do you love her?”
chirps the busy wren.
“Do I need to write this down?”
“That depends on too many things.”
“How shall I start my poem?”
Is your poem the kind of poem that sings?”
The poet cannot decide what form
his poem will take. The wren
has confused the poet again.
Poems exist because the woods are deep
and poets never finish conversations there.
The poet returns by the path along the river
catching burrs and petals in his long black hair.
