October 8, 2024When My Student Who Wants to Be a Writer Says They Do Not Read
Why would you build a house with no nails?
Why plant, till, harvest a crop
in whose taste you find no savor?
The bees of the field scan the dances of their sisters
before penning a path to the lavender patch—
The forest produces a new body
of work only after absorbing volumes of cedar trees,
each bear bread and blueberry bush in the Tongass
standing on the shoulders of giants—
The incoming waves read each stone and shell
on the shore as they sketch the high tide line—
Inside you is a curled fern yearning for light.
Inside you is a fire lit beneath a capped chimney.
Smoke fills your rooms; there are no doors
or windows to air them out.
from Poets Respond