I thought I didn’t know how to respond to this dverse prompt. Then realised I need to remind myself.
He wrote, they wrote, we wrote, I write. Poetry is a yearning, a trail of matter that drapes the DNA like a banner, drifting and waving in the essence of who I am. It is a baton handed down, a pearl in a deep dark shell that opens when the time is right and the dark pearls become rainbows. I took up the batons, one in each hand one from each side, distaff and spear, and I wield them like pencils. Poems surge in the blood with the pulse of the heart, always were, like the sands on an ancient beach, always will be, as long as there is a star above to guide the words to birth.
Opening, leaf buds,
enrobing with green, a tree.