On Writing Drafts of Poetry

A few words caught
in the gossamer net of thought
On constant replay,
“The winnowing whistle of the wind”
or “Light licks it’s way up the wall”
tickle like a feather
poking through a down comforter,
emerging, trying to be born
by archaically setting them to paper
or virtually speaking, typed to screen
prompt more words like water on seeds
a growth of lines, organic and fragile
stretch out in all directions,
needing to be trained, like grapevines
stretching along a post,
massaged into place on the page
so they present the best stanzas,
the choicest and fullest fruit
to take to market and sell.