Gestation

 
 
There is a poem trying to get out
and it's been trying for days -
doesn't it know
it isn't ready?
 
It goes quietly from room
to room looking for
a way out, a way to
it's own life free of the
 
uncertainty of being
incomplete and
it looks like a sad
prisoner. It doesn't
 
like me for keeping
it in and I say
to it You aren't
ready You aren't
 
a thing I can understand.
It wants me to let it go
and find it's own
completeness. It  
 
tells me there is only  
so much I can do
and that more will
smother the poem;

it tells me that I  
must trust the poem.
The poem will find
it's own way  
 
and essence
 
and purpose.