A poem is
a capricious
thing:
light
as a feather,
delicate
as the rain
on your parched
tongue.
Listen,
don’t act;
not just yet.
Summon
the words
too soon
and it’s liable
to disappear.
No, you must
use care.
Ask what
it means,
stay open,
learn.
Your will is quick
to impose
truth.
The poem is
not aware,
until it is.
That’s the moment
you wait for.
Absence of ego,
tide of
awareness,
of singular
purpose.
You must not
hold back then.
Focus, and
beg the poem
not to change.