The Birth of Poems
On paper sheets, crisp and white,
we labor over the words we write.
Newborns, in lines they lay,
their mouths wide open,
with more to say.
They cry at us and won't shut up,
until they are weaned from bottle to cup.
And as they grow, their voices are heard.
Clearly now you'll hear every word.
Copyright © Darlene Gifford | Year Posted 2014
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