when poems creep beneath the soil
there is no hope
that they’ll resurface
yet nourished on
the blood that leaks
from wounds
or salt and water
from a tear
they will prove hardy
demanding to survive
in dreams
and crawling out of holes
years afterward
emerging fully formed
wings beating in a
clamor
too loud to be ignored
then shooting
upwards
terrifying all
(despite their shortened season)
with fiery
unblinking eyes
Photo by Mayank Dhanawade on Unsplash
