A book is growing in me like a child.
It bumps against my insides
from time to time
I hum to it
when I think to,
I settle into the gait
of its weight
I sense the course of its development,
chapters like ears of corn,
words like the kernels
Things remain mysterious,
like how it will all come together —
it isn’t mine to pry the answers out
A book is growing in me
like a poem. It will come out
when it’s ready.
©Wendy Mulhern
August 22, 2019
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