Sometimes the poem lives,
pouring out of its own accord.
Sometimes it lays sleeping,
it loses shape when resting
and cannot be awoken
until it lays flat on the page.
So, you have to pull it out slowly,
It’s extremely flexible
like imaginary plasticine.
You give back to it shape,
stare at it briefly,
a wonderful polished pebble of thought.
Then close the book,
open up the mind
and set off in search
of the next tiny treasure.
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