The Unbegun
The unbegun poem
is a tree root,
clinging to a whirlwind.
A stag hides,
in a thicket of hunters.
Nothing speaks,
where memory leaves no footprint.
The buried must uncover
a spade.
Grubs must sing with angels,
both are needed,
to denude the already naked.
In time,
if you give time freely away,
as if to a homeless hermit crab,
the unbegun will arrive,
in the jumbled wardrobe of mind,
seeking to be dressed
in any garments you have
previously rescued
from a dust storm.
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