One of the things that always fascinates me is process. How did that little gem of a poem get from its inception, the spark that caught the poet’s attention, that made her stop, bend down, scrabble through the debris of her thoughts, pick up that hunk of crystal and take it to the lapidary workshop of her mind, to study it, find the cleavage planes, fracture off what wasn’t needed, laboriously grind away at it to fix the facets, and polish them until they caught the light just right. That’s one of the things that frustrates me about poets. Like a calculus exam. It’s not enough to come up with the right answer. I want to see their work. The editing, the crossings out, the winnowing and rewording. And then I want to hear them read it aloud, to breathe their own breath into the words and make them live.
On a 4/4 beat of feet, the furry folk arrive,
Leaving paw prints all across our days,
Strewing naps across our sunshine places.
As faithful as a shadow,
These offspring of Chaos and Delight,
Weave themselves into the warp and weft of every day,
Born knowing when to lead,
When to follow,
And when to walk beside.
Oh, how they grace us with their presence!
As agile as a smile, as lithe as laughter,
They pitter-pat along the pathways of our hearts,
And what a wounded emptiness they leave behind
When it is time for them to go.
Sure as spring comes after winter,
When at last it comes our time to go,
We will find them waiting for us
Just inside the Gate,
Whole ardent for the next adventure,
For it would not be Heaven otherwise.
I found this little shard of song, while wandering the shores of the Dreaming Sea.
It lay tangled in a wrack of questions, abandoned by the lisping waves among the pebbles.One day I might take it up, make polite inquiries, and see if it will answer. In the meantime, let it sit here on this metaphorical window sill to catch the light and glitter enigmatically, humming quietly to itself.
The winter sky is azure glazed,
A bowl wiped clean of cloud smudge by the wind.
It would ping like porcelain.
See the wild geese fly.
They pass in straggling flotillas,
Outward bound to far away and someplace else.
Sleek, like white-hulled racing shells they glide,
Long prows black and needle thin,
Wings like oar blades
Sculling through the liquid air.
Hear them cry the stroke.
I will not stay behind and watch them
Sail away without me,
Off across the watercolor wash of winter sky
Bound for far away and someplace else.
One day, I will follow after.
But not yet.