The Poem Waits at Its Own Core
By John Fox
(Contemporary)
The poem at its core
Is snow or egg,
The new moon or grass
In spring.
All these pause at the edge
Of change. There is a deep
Stillness you must pass through
To get close to what waits.
At this edge, you leave
Everything behind
Except what the poem needs:
Warmth, rain, silence,
Gravity --
Make it something you know
Only for the first time:
A river, heartbeat,
Cradle, field of play.
The place where all things
Begin again.
By John Fox
(Contemporary)
The poem at its core
Is snow or egg,
The new moon or grass
In spring.
All these pause at the edge
Of change. There is a deep
Stillness you must pass through
To get close to what waits.
At this edge, you leave
Everything behind
Except what the poem needs:
Warmth, rain, silence,
Gravity --
Make it something you know
Only for the first time:
A river, heartbeat,
Cradle, field of play.
The place where all things
Begin again.
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