Is a poem an art?
Or the artist?

Does art rush out of toes,
And fingers
can’t wait its time?

Or does it grow like a tree,
like a tumor,
Creeping and encroaching until you can’t help
but notice.

Does a poem surprise a poet in the dead
of night like a lover or like love?

Does the poet know it is there?

Is it nurtured,
Raised like a bean plant,
like a child,
Until it is strong enough to survive on its own?

Or, like the lion, does it
Seem to be strong and unflappable, but, like the lion, does it run in the face of critics, of loved ones, waiting?

Or, is it an insect,
from the moment it is
penned, hatched,
does it do its job?
Know its work?

Or it is an extension of the artist, an
arm, or a leg, waiting, waiting, to be extended?

White and flimsy from
unuse, does it
require sun?