Poetry weaves simple fabric into threads
of a refined tapestry. To touch the weave is
soft as wool and also rough like a course steel brush.
Mind and emotion curl together in waves that shift
and rise from open sea to a white sandy shoreline.
Those who swim deep, dress in the finest silk and
find the inner sanctum. The price they pay is freedom.
Its words curl into broad and fine sequins of royal dress.
It brings lilacs and color or strikes a devastating blow.
Poetry is a fine antique awaiting its patrons.