without a subject a poet is grounded
like a butterfly with wet wings
and whines and whimpers
won’t change the gravity
of the situation hidden flowers
don’t wait to wrinkle and die
but there are buds everywhere
even more that are pre-formed
and tons of buds still invisible
sitting inside stems like premonitions
and those that wait in seeds
just hopeful promises
hoping for rain to sprout and
the sun to pull them out
so why worry
about a dry spell
in wet weather
or wings or flowers
or anything
poets will always find
nectar in life
get shamelessly drunk
and never stop
wanting more