Sow, and Sew

I debated whether poems
Are seeds planted in a row
Or stitches joining fabric
Sometimes randomly you know

Do they sprout tender seedlings
That often turn out wild
Or are they hand-me-downs
No longer sized for you child

Are poets really children
Speaking through the words
Trying to take flight
Nervous little birds

I imagine some are bold
Believe in every verse
Others tending fragments
Playing doctor, playing nurse

Does weather play a factor
When it dials up a mood
Slashes on the paper
Or a simple, mindful brood

Where do all these poets live
Country life, or city bustle
Can they afford to contemplate
Or is it just another hustle

Perhaps, they're prospectors
Shaking dirt through a screen
Always with an eye
For a piece that will gleam

I suppose my answer's there
In these lines that I've sown
Though the pattern of their tapestry
Still loosely hangs unsewn