In a certain frame of mind--one that's possible in the creative spaces at an artist colony--anything can be a poem, everything speaks.   As I walk the path from the house to my studio, lines pop into my mind.   I have to triage the planned work, and let the new lines sing.  I remember that Darwin walked a "thinking path" every day at Down House, in Kent. Most of us who write have some kind of "thinking path" or ritual.  This morning, walking VCCA path, the line "I love the meat they become," came up.   This issued from the point of view of the poison that Darwin drank on the West Coast of South America, in the form of sour new wine.  He was laid low. The poem's a pantoum, and I'm working on revising it now.   When I said to the other artists, "Anything can be a poem," a composer said, "How about this sandwich?"  The  item in question was a loathsome pimento sandwich that we had for lunch yesterday.   His point was well-taken.  Almost anything can be a poem.    Marilyn