“how do you write a poem?”

the youngster cries.

“i hear with my ears,

and see with my eyes–

i pick a thing, a seed,

to softly blow, and blow,

and blow into a dangly,

loopy bubble…

seeing how it stirs,

or bulges,

and how my mind believes,

reflects, indulges

in its pause; and does it

look for trouble?

quicken the heart?

or make one feel so smart?

all these things a poem is,

once nothing, into synthesis.

you have a go now!

and let me know!”