Magic Pots

You can tell a poet
by the way she hands out pens
to fill up forms where they ask you
if you own any guns
And the way she sits on the park bench
letting the rough concrete feel her calluses
breathing in an orchard of trees
some planted, some not

You can tell by the way her neck turns
to the sky following winter
as it travels on gull wings into spring
or by the way she moves her ladle with precision
like moon tides stirring oceans
as if the very act of churning the soup
will bring forth another earth from within

Or you can surely tell when
robbed of her pens
her bench
her park, her trees
or her birds and their seasons
and made to stir
an empty pot over and over again,
she does bring forth another earth
unsullied by her losses
and flies over it
with stronger wings

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