In relation to a poem

In relation to a poem
I am squirrel-celled for hunting,
lynx-loined, cheetah-blooded,
eagle clawed, serpentine,
religious in an oil of motion
that does not vary or weary
as it mines for meaning
within belonging here,
“Riddle of my being,” I say,
heart of my heart, be kind.
Word Spirit, enter me.
What is it you are saying?”
Crawling, digging, burrowing,
I bury the bones of my thought
before a traitor can find them,
sneak in and confuse my pen,
as I clutch and clamber my way
up a phantom tree, unfree to clarify
mystery, nor pausing for winds
to speak their minds and write
the poem that rises in me
when I’ve left my greed behind.
But in midflight poems turn
if the wind lists, and are kind.