This child asks, “Why do you write poems?”
I answer in quiet phrases
that move like a brush in watercolor.

“You see, words are seeds planted
in the moonlight and in the heat of day.
Dormant below the surface of a rock
like lichen or moss to a string of bark.”

His smooth brow frowns
impatiently, at words that fly
like simple space for wind
or fire to blow.

I try again, “Look under this rock,
imagine this soil, full of tentacles,
rhizoids, with faith, those secrets
can grow into flowers.”

He looks up and sees golden moths
as they circle the lamp we lit
just the two of us alone
at dusk.

“I think I know what you mean,”
says this tender sage
“It is like that,” he points at the creatures
that circle yellow around the light.