The works

There is no hardship to endure. 
You will not find a hammer 
Here. The words are not nails 
That you can bash to hold still. 
This is no workshop. The prints 
Cannot list and grow like
Tadpoles do—safely aligned, 

Kicking away with amphibian vigour. 
There are no doors 
To the rites of passage. 
You will never write as well
As masons do, besetting white stones
With your etching. 
Earth and water 

Deny you, left you deserts 
That yearn forever for the cool shade 
Of an oasis. If it should grow 
Some magnificent softwood, inmost
And reaching with its watery roots, then 
It shall bear fruits 
Beautiful and proud, like unread poetry. 

Dale Chou
2012-08-18