The White Flowered Dogwood Tree

There are conditions for poetry, no doubt, notably surrender,
as when a poem waylays you and your knees buckle,
and for a moment you forget you have arms.

There are circumstances to scribble verses maybe no one should read,
as when the veiled lady you are, haunts the wood and nobody sees,
except the poem that stalks you through the tangle.

There are reasons to sing the night
'cause the bird in your bonnet is squeezing your lights,
and the breath on your neck has you up tight.