Each day
his muse gives him
seeds to plant
on his sheets of paper
on his screens,
his fields,
to tend to
so that they will
sprout and grow
irrigated
from her spring
into a harvest
of poems
to be grateful of,
to be offered
at her fain,
yet this planter
and reaper
of plentiful
crops, hearing
Priapus chiming,
would also
plow
her furrow
07.-14.07.2025
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