To a Poetic Time Lone For Poets of Poetic Faith

To A Poetic Time Line For Poets of Poetic Faith The mind hangs in silence All is stilled—thoughts lingering Lazily as if in a cosmic animation; No words drip from the faucet That once streamed waters of creation. Now there’s only empty air passing over idle lexis. How deceiving is the thought. Idle mind. Like a dormant volcano Quietly create its inner explosive flow, So does the idle mind—its own. No creation is void of time— Time, itself, the elusive of all creation; Is not she the Garden of Eden within herself? Katydids are time in metamorphosis; babes In the womb; black holes their dept of time’s time. In all creation time is an instant of the eternity of self. The poem is a creature of time—creation In the womb if mind—fertile words. All birth is a timed delivery. While time its self does not wait We must wait on the timing of time And in time: The poem comes.