T.

Like ants seeking a scent trail as the path to food, so have I all afternoon and now into well past midnight sought the scent trail to a new poem, to no avail.

Somewhere there is a sugar bowl where a caravan of ants is stealing sugar, grain by grain. Or perhaps in that bowl is my poem and the ants are marching away with the words, two by two, hurrah. Maybe I should look for an anthill, not the sugar bowl.

(Imagine each cut leaf section is a word —)

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