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Oh, where have all those poems gone?
Are they hiding?
in that dark cave beneath the earth
where all the combs,
socks and pencils go
that we can't find "no more,
or have they taken time out
for a spring break?
Or are they waiting
like a seed in the dark earth
for the gentle rain
of thought and insight,
or for the sharp spade
of experience
to turn over the earthy crust
to let the sun warm
the tiny plant
calling it forth
into its transformation
into the passionate flower
of love and joy?