This first poem
should be a good one.
Neither haiku,
nor list.
Tone-setting,
not necessarily groundbreaking
hinting at 29 riper, juicier
unblemished, delicious fruits to come.
This one is like the first fig
you did not want to pick
the flesh not moistening pinkness
neither sweet start nor tangy finish
but green, pulpy, unsatisfying.
But you could not wait for the sticky juice
of poem between your fingers
needed to flow ink through frozen winter pathways
remind neurons their job is
only connect.
A little hard, a bit rough, perhaps stilted
Writing, like renewal,
is a process.
And you must start somewhere.
c. e. amato 4.11
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