Dug deep into my thoughts,
I find a hard-wrought poem
Caught between a rose-bush and a fence.
I scramble at the surface, scratching
Past the clumps of earth, catching
Nailfuls of half-remembered things, and
Striking one: a glintless grain, like
Copper.
I cannot mould it. Never did
I wonder that my poem
Might not be underground,
But twisted skyward from some cracked seed-casing—away,
Away like art, and whole and fully grown,
So I can taste the tune
By which to slowly play it
Back to virtue,
And to untouched home.