About my writing
He says he wants to ask me
The question
Which he wishes
Others would ask him
About his music

This is the question—
“What question
Do you want me
To ask you
About your art?”

I cannot help but feel
That he is cheating

Isn’t digging through the dirt,
Clamoring through the confusion,
And finally finding
After much searching

Somewhat similar to
All the sunshine and rain
Required
Before a flower
Will unfold for you?

Did nature
Have it so easy
As simply having to ask
What it was
That the flower wanted?

Or did many flowers
Have to die
Before nature learned
The unfolding
Of a single flower?

Was it worth kneeling
In the soil
And watching
For every second
Of every day

To learn to ask
The right question?

June 09, 2021 at 12:00AM