Sometimes a poem seems to grow from nothing:
A word, a phrase, a line or two unfolds
A thought which gathers more words to its something,
Then like a snowball, down the hill it rolls,
Collecting windfall from the poet's mind
Which forms a shape, then chiseled and refined.
Sometimes a poet seems to grow from nothing:
A child is born, his sense of the world unfolds
A thought which gathers more thoughts to his something
Then like a snowball, down the hill he rolls,
Collecting windfall for his poet-mind
Which makes the man, by Love and Life refined.
George Chadderdon © 2000