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You know, like dough, a verse needs rest,

before again you wrestle words,

or like a smith you hammer, beat,

to smash the molten into shape.

Now does it sizzle, tip dipped, cool,

or maybe back to furnace heat,

avoid pig-iron, brittle work,

when best is wrought through sweated toil?

If horse to ride its shoes must fit -

when hanging on the stable door,

if luck to hold, the cup side up,

unless its bolted, lettuce crop.

I never know the course it takes,

from metal gate with serif curls,

to furlong race - watch betting slip -

or veggie patch that’s gone to seed?

Our scribe needs space, that yeast ferments,

and time to prove, for crust or slump -

as musing, rise through mystery,

as rising, muse on secrecy.

Though flatbreads have their uses too;

unleavened, signifies a feast.

So who can tell, the poet’s yield,

in giving way, or fruitful field?

Published by Fresh Words, Contemporary Poems Anthology 2022

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