© 2019 Shawn Becker 

DEAR POET

MAKING IT

The hand makes

its nest in our mind

when we are ready

to fly 

out of our eyes we become 

fledglings in flight school

branches turning

to spears, galleons, muskets, wagon wheels, pencils, two-car

garages

do we want

is it possible

to remember

branch in the time of branch

when we lived

tree to tree

and the hand had everything

to hold

our thoughts

a few worms in the dew.

Yours truly,

The Artist