POETS

Poets throw words into the air.

And some fall into ears and

work their way down

that brown wax channel

into the garden of the brain.

And like a steel spade

the poet’s words and images

wiggle and ease and shake

loose a root of a memory. And

water trickles or rushes up

from that forgotten moment.

And tears flow out of eyes.

And a smile shows up

on a face or two. And sometimes,

sorry, just the opposite happens:

a scowl – the wanting to hide

from a distant deep rooted hurt

which appears as a wince

on a wrinkled face.

O my God, there is so much tilling

and so much telling to tell – and

so much to forget, so much to bury,

or sometimes better, so many roots to cut.

© Andy Costello, Reflections 2011