Poem Knows

Poem knows

where I’ve been

       in my mind

Poem watches

as I lay down

for a long while

in the gloaming

atop

decaying maple leaves

a soft sweetness

      hummus

Poem isn’t concerned

he knows this is

grist

for the malady mill

scoops a handful of

the ground bits

spreads them around

     soon-fertile fields

Poem resumes his post

sentinel

for words yet

to break through

sprouts waiting

      for the sun.