What invisible force sits me down
to write my life as literature?
Is it having no voice in the matter,
but a soul with an ache to speak?
Or because hours are winds in a hurry
with appointments to keep in hollow trees?
And paper for writing flammable,
apt any instant to go up in smoke?
Possibly the instinct to say, “Moo,”
after a lifetime of cud-chewing?
Or is it the willow tree phenomenon,
the tree that droops because it droops,
tells me to write because I write,
and not to question the predilection?
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