Thank the muses that a poem flew into my heart
arrows of fancy I write gratefully and fastly. I
witness the pen moving and the ink--
this time the color brown--
flowing onto the page as the sun
sometimes sparks off the wetness
and then--like when the coffee maker
makes its final spurt--it is done. My hand stops moving as words drip to an end and the mind ques quiet and I earnestly read what has transpired in this attack of physical words in familiar hand on the page that is now full. For a moment my body is calm, my mind at rest.
[Note: this is not the poem that came to me in a flash--that poem, over there, was written in blue and this, as I've said before, is of brown ink with an occasional spark of sun.]
No comments:
Post a Comment