Fertile Poem by Val Morehouse

On the small geography of this page
I set lines into poetry.

No mere plant, this is a leafy
sunset created from

the bee’s imagination, pollen collected
to seed another sunrise.

And here? A handful of time snipped
from its sprawl over the earth,

grows pungent with the oil of memory,
a harvest still warm from the picking.

With perfume grown from dreams,
taste made from cultivation,

and companions of feeling and deed saved
by weedy decapitations, each word is

art composted to leave behind a
soil sweet, clean, and fertile for amazement.