It’s what we do, Marcus. Read a poem and presume to know everything about the poet. A few drops of blood in the sink and suddenly every reader is Sherlock Holmes, pipe, hat and all.
Isn’t that the poet’s calling, to let his soul bleed on paper.
A poem is a dragonfly, you see it flash by, a blur of colour and hum and impending rain. There’s a story in it, a grimace, a sigh, a mirror. But it is not garden or the sky and surely not the poet.
That’s what the reader sees, not the ink stained hand that held out the mirror that captured the dragonfly that dropped out of the sky but the other hand shielding the mirror from the first raindrop.
Elementary, I suppose?
leaf by leaf
autumn paints the scene
bare branch and frozen water