Word carvers, sculptors of the senses
Who send shards furiously flying
And cut curlicues with such slow care
Before the hearths of generations.
First the dream, then the word, soon the song.
Hear me now as you would too be heard
All voices that yearn need one hearer
Hammering their hearts on life’s anvil
Coals and sparks, the years’ tolls eaten whole.
First the pain, then the tear, soon the cry.
Would I be then muse to the muses
Join in sorting through the detritus
Word hoards, the shell piles of the West’s past
Three hundred thousand to choose but one.
First the kiss, then the love, soon the joy.
Brothers and sisters keeping vigil
Search for the fresh not like the grocer
Spraying his hose on wilting lettuce
Pray for the phrase, the lightening strike.
First the thought, then the work, soon the art.