Somehow

a poem sometimes

somehow writes

itself onto a cool

white page,

unfurling tentatively 

like this small turtle 

emerging somehow

from a thicket

next to a bubbling 

current,

inching up

the paved pathway

into a green hillside 

of garden

where her tiny

head pokes forth

to nibble tender

leaves and be

secretly nourished

somehow

here in the hidden

shade

of afternoon’s

edible basket

of light.