The poet must be willing
to pull off her shoulders
the warm blanket
walk into the unknown
hear the story
the cottonwood whispers and wander
with the red ant
wherever it leads.
The poet must be willing
to get dirty
to scrabble around the rubble of words
scuffing her knees scraping
her elbows breaking her nails
to dig out a sliver of crystal
imbedded in hard rock soil.
The poet must be willing
to rub the dirt from it
line it up with the last
and the last and the last
until she stands in the shadow
of an eternal wall
true and straight.
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