Today's (contemplative) poem

Maybe if I took more time with my poems,
they'd be better.
Maybe if, instead of just throwing down words,
I considered them carefully,
placed them in a proven order,
provoked responses with their power,
they'd be better.
Maybe if I learned the craft,
studied the greats, obtained the experience,
honed the skills, paid the attention,
they'd be better.
Or maybe I'd take away their essence.
Maybe I'd change their birthplace,
the internal well they spring from,
the divine river I fish them from.
Maybe I'd uproot the Christmas poe-tree,
under which I find my literary gifts.
Maybe my mind would dry,
my pen would falter,
my keyboard sit untroubled.
Maybe my poems would suffer from the strain of some schooling,
be weighed down by the weight of work,
become a chore, a bore, an unasked-for task,
a problem.
Maybe...
...they'd be worse.

RC 23-2-26