By A. G. Moore
To Poets Who May Read This: Please understand I am not a poet, but this seemed pompous as an essay and less so as a poem, so I framed the thoughts in verse.
Here I am, between projects.
Though not really; always an idea is germinating,
Waiting for fruition.
Does the earth get restless between seasons,
Or does it slumber peacefully
Under the cover of winter snow?
There must be tension in the ground,
Potential energy, building slowly,
Waiting to burst forth with the spring equinox.
Where is my equinox?
What is the trigger
That will call forth the blossoming of ideas?
The earth may bloom on schedule–
Though this creation can be disrupted
By unorthodox weather patterns.
But there is no discernible pattern to my creativity.
I am still,
Or so it seems to those who observe my quietude.
They are deceived.
I ride the cataract
Before the cascade.
How long before lateral motion ends
And I am plummeted once again into the
Free fall of creation?