Glen Martin Fitch
MY THEORY OF GARDENING
Words shoot out of my pen
like unsown seeds
that never knew a hand
but lie about
to crack the untilled land
with desperate roots,
who know their how and when,
digging fast and deep
and then a stalk up soars.
Ere leaf and bloom expand
I cut them back
again and yet again.
Some favor weak willed vines,
some value weeds.
Their pens are free to roam
as they compose.
I plan. I prune. I graft.
This poet breeds each precious bud
as if a perfect rose.
Curse not the barren branch,
the fallow yard.
To write is easy.
Not to write is hard.
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