Carving a new poem


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I sit by the waterfall,

Thinking of nothing,

Watching a fly going up and down,

Or a reed waltzing in the breeze,

I listen to the sound of my own voice,

Chanting words I have used,

In making my poems;

I see a bee,

Busy,

Sniffing out the nectar of a flower,

Eventually getting drunk,

Falling into a drowsy snooze,

On a mattress of a wild rose,

With its petals as a pillow,

And I know my mind is carving

A new poem.