From the poet’s ready pen comes the
yawning stillness, leaking out
from linen thoughts, stretched
tight upon the hungry loom.
How dear these words come, dear soul,
trading green for our grey.
Like the pastiche of a late morning sigh,
our tough and torrid skin oft forbids
your trim veracity, always enough
to root it all in the insufferable lightness of song.
Tease out the rising tides,
their turning waves run amok.
Oh ready writer, graft our branch to seed,
your root to leaf and banish
all the rotted soil to its brown eternity.
Winnow out from worn whimsy,
with your willow-throated pen, our
long-faded hope. You set about
your task, anonymous to none but
the unseeing ears of deaf brutes.
Letters, cast adrift to their watercolor
harbors, dive down, down,
down from brushes, pinched
tight in fingers that point
with precision to everything that eludes.
Paint wide the foraging colors of
dimpling fragments of forest, new.
Tease out our trembling days, and release
what hides itself in the obvious.