Look, he said, at the gray squirrel
perched on top the wooden fence
that borders the garden out back.
Study it well before it takes offense
and departs without a by your leave,
scattering hull and seed in its track –
Like a poet with half-formed idea,
who discards reams of dry husks,
seeking the seed within each morsel;
who digests the meat of metaphor
and simile, set in rhythm and rhyme
in lines that defy inexorable time,
leaving images that remain behind
imprinted alive on a reader’s mind.
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