Try This / Fiona Sheehan

God, we are so lucky to be in this bed of language.
Read poetry - even when and if you can't write it yourself.
Hear the talk of concerned people.
Watch and hear language and thoughts evolve,
then watch the bee lift up into the turquoise canopy of tree.
There are times when it is most poetic to simply think,
God, the earth is beautiful.
When the inch worm dangling in front of the busy road,
or the people who have been sitting by the street all morning
are to be recognized.

But to my generation of digital poets, I must say this:
Know that when thoughts are actualized on the page, they change.
That I am @ the computer typing this
signifies that these words have not arrived undisturbed.
Like transplanting a tree into your own manicured, well-tended
    garden,
this poem is once, maybe twice, maybe worlds removed.
It is a tourist, seeking, but not finding the place of origin
it so desperately wants to see,
to make its own.

But still, it is worth it
to find the poetry that is unedited by a moody hand,
the phrase that isn't planned,
and to find the place where you are only grateful
for your consciousness in that moment.

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