Every poem, the man who taught her words,

surpasses her last arrangement.

Every poem, the girl flies triumphantly

past the father.

He edits his verse twenty years,

until it's ripe and done.

Until at last he

gives up on it.

She spits them out, seeds,

until some waning week or month,

when she imagines

she'll never write again.

Poems are like the Indian's land

the tribe that knows it's family.

A part of our inner world

we can never deny.

Sisters and brothers

surging ahead

as whose most prolific

can't forget the roots.

Odes to death.

Odes to forgetfulness.

Odes to poems.

Cars full of odes,

traversing wherever the GPS directs,

up Georgia Road on the long ride,

to the Pentagon if asked,

but hopefully home.