John Keats wrote in a letter
that if poetry comes not as naturally
as leaves to a tree,
it had better not come at all.
Easy for Keats to say—
poetry came to him
organically, like branches clothed in green.
But I am nowhere near as gifted.
For me, each word is wrenched,
each line pulled out
as if tearing a tooth from the jaw.
While Keats had it easy,
I labor through poems
as painfully as birth.
Yet I write—
for the reward of completion
outweighs the ache.
So I will write poems my way.
Perhaps, in time,
my tree too will grow leaves
naturally, organically.
