Réponse

A reply by Jessica Perini

You never forget poetry, I promise you.
Sometimes it
gathers
Not like dust motes on a dresser,
rather
it takes to the underworld.
Like leaves to a forest floor

Nurturants build
Fungal spores ripen
Insects — decay’s friends
work their magic.
A vast army
trudges underground — 
unseen to the eye
Emotions
too embroiled yet for light
crinkle and crack
Ideas roil
Forms yet uncovered
trace new paths

Not slumbering, 
busy —
yet unseen 

There is no forgetting.
Life is implicit, complicit
with decay