BECAUSE I DID NOT STOP
The words came as I weeded, thoughts urgent pouring down,
like the sun's unending heat on the overheated ground.
Too intent on work before me, swinging weedy battle sword,
I made no pause to save them, coming of their own accord.
Building rhythm, still they fell into my mind intent on working,
and I wondered whether stopping to seek pencil would be shirking.
Surely it was solemn duty to keep tilling in the soil,
though the shiny verbal glitter tempted me away from toil.
So, persistent in my calling to do work of worthy merit,
I forever lost the golden song; to my regret I'll never hear it.
-HJ July/August 2001