To pen poetry is to imitate
the grass beneath our feet, ants crawling there;
yet composing it can be confusing
like walking blindfolded up wooded hill
or like digging a twenty-five-foot hole
to make a well, uncertain of success.
While one may record the pleasures of life
in pastures of rolling seasons, or love,
or the progress of celestial spheres,
the process resembles a self-tattoo.
Yes, it’s old Sisyphus puffing uphill,
knowing your project will tumble back down,
and yet that rock may recoil back down
with a wild, scrunching, singing, thrilling sound