I struggle to hold myself back sometimes;
to restrain my mind from flooding the paper.
If I write a lot, I’m afraid my poetry would run dry.
What then would comfort me in my retirement years?
I must not spend my words so- like heedless youth spent.
So I hoard my poetry and thoughts
like I used to hoard fossils of dried leaves
or broken pieces of coloured bangles.
But nothing I grab hold of plugs my urge
and I write as if from a bottomless well,
shamelessly drilling deeper and deeper.