Thoughtful, but then, isn’t that what poetry is meant to be?
The NaPoWriMo prompt, to have a sort of conversation with a poem, or an aspect of a poem didn’t appeal to me at all, but it made me think about the triangular relationship between the poem, the object of the poem and its author. And I wrote this.
What does it matter in the end?
This buttercup is itself,
no matter how I wrap it in romance,
clothe it in colourful metaphors.
It is.
Cup of golden light, sometimes,
cupping its memory when skies are dull.
A poem is a plundering of accumulated words
from the lumber room in my head.
A poem is built little by little,
like petals opening, leaves unfurling.
The buttercup nods. Nothing I can say,
no welding together of hefty similes
will make a bridge between poem and plant.
Words in the wind.
The flower grows a time and then dies.
Becoming is Superior to Being 
Beautiful words!
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