After reading poetry
				                                     It is almost midnight.
				                                     I am hungry for words.
				                                     I could have been about art,
				                                     but I chose to read

				                                     I never dread
				                                     poetry, to read
				                                     it is not divine. To start
				                                     writing words
				                                     I need not wait for midnight.

				                                    Hungry for words last 
				                                    fall, I walked a deer trail.
				                                    I found a tree,
				                                    no bigger around,
				                                    than my fist.

				                                    I could have missed
				                                    them but looking up from ground,
                               dry as a three
				                                    week drought makes, one fell
				                                    as though cast, 

				                                    and even before frost,
				                                    how sweet that persimmon was.