This Morning
This morning
I will write a poem–
not about the challenges
of my house–my daily toils.
There is one thistle poem
I need to write about, challenges
for future fescue hay rolls.
——–
It has one bloom, magnificant,
but I will destroy it today
before its seeds, white fluff,
——–
mature, wind blown, indignant
to the poem’s protest, as is its way,
better suited for Mikinos’ tough
burros’ mouths than angus cattle.
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This poem really captures me; I think it’s because of the details which lends it a level of peculiarity. For instance, the phrase “thistle poem,” which could be a poem about thistles but also feels more primordial than that, like it’s a type of poetry in itself. The enjambment of the last line also lends an oddity, separating the objects (I think, grammar is hard) of the sentence from their context. Also, perfect iambs and great sound in the line “for future fescue hay rolls.” And the destroying of the bloom right after introducing it to us! This poem begins in the poet’s mind and expands its scope to all of nature, its cycles. Which fits well with its title.