Poems are actually
deep wishes and thoughts
put on paper
spoken to the naked ear
to burn there...
Are they not all coals
waiting for flame
and forever glowing,
turning to ashes--blowing in the wind
to land yet another place
to be loved in a child's sand castle
or a toadstool forest
always traveling and taking shape.
This is what poems are.
And you thought the dirt on your washcloth
was only from the house fire.
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