not another poem today
about the moon or stars
the sunrise
or butterflies
silence or birds singing
I beg to myself
there’s an unsprouted seed
in the corner of the garden
I’ve never written about
alive in its own world
hoping to live in mine
if I give it water
it’s author intrusion
so I must wait for
what cloud’s deliver
I do spit at it
from time to time
and if I ever hit
the bullseye well
I might have to change
the first few lines
then make a lyrical confession
in another poem