My words are not published in a book
For twenty dollars for you to look,
But reside scribbled in a cheap notebook.
My words are not born in a printer's shop,
But are written down while sitting under a tree
Or on the back of my truck.
I don't have a house to shelter my words,
But I have land to grow my words.
Some people have both,
I had to make a choice.
For on my land is a special place
If reincarnation there be,
I wish to come back as a tree
Ever nurtured by the poetry there.
And when to me the chainsaw strikes,
Gather up my pieces, pulp them down,
And from me paper make,
Then bind me up in a cheap notebook.