What does he do that I don’t?
Oh, he writes on and on
Occasionally uses too much paper;
Then the spellbinding lines
“Part of the moon was falling down
West, dragging the whole sky with it.
Its light poured softly in her lap,
She spread her apron to it.”
Pure soft magic fills the room,
I slowly learn to breathe again.
Everything unnecessary stripped away,
The soul burnished till it glows.
These words joyously fit as no other
Where did he learn to do that?
I’d gladly go to Vermont and farm
If the secret were whispered in my ear.
A build up, slowly, carefully crafted story
Beguiling with its simplicity, takes unaware.
Captures the heart, won’t let go.
Not till later we know of the gift.
Softness, gentleness, moving reverence
Unfolding events, each in its own ordered time.
His spirit shared by intuitive words.
No Shakespearean courtliness here
Although that’s another story.
What need has a Vermont farmer
For pantaloons and sword
When he has the whole world.