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Poem
(continued from Part 1)

Two points create a line
A space from two words
And on and on a verse
A poetry line is sound and sense
A dense fabric of many textures & hues
Woven on a temporal loom
With patterns numberless
And spaces to process

Call it 'opening the spigot'
Listening to the inner voice
The once-empty vessel now filled
With experience rich & varied
Readings and reflections
And most of all, life
Life upon life pouring forth 
Such that it fairly frightens you
And humbles too
In all its prodigal richness
Turn the tap, it's all there
There in the spaces inside 

A child held aloft on a swing
Endowed is she with energy
Potential energy it’s called
But where of all places does that energy reside?
Inside the child? Or in your hands?
Or maybe in God’s mind?
It matters not for there it abides
Waiting patiently to be untied
Released it will not knock nor queue in line
Such energy in all of us lies
At a fixéd point whose locus is nowhere
And whose circumference infinite is

These are my ears; they have yet to fail me
These, my hands; strong, broad, and true
Forearms corded, purple veins
At once forceful and delicate, tender and terrible
A man’s hands but also an animal’s 
Capable of many things
Made for honest labor
Or simply tracing God’s noble thoughts on paper

Many songs have been wrought
On a lover’s sigh
A letter unsent
A sentiment unspoken
The essence of art is its very insubstance
And therein, too, its beauty

The most fantastical  butterfly trapped in a jar
The laboratory specimen, disrobed, pinned open on paraffin
To dissect is to destroy, but
To know life we must take life
In order to live, something else must die
Therein the paradox lies
But all life is restored through poetry
Ars langa, vita brevis
Art is long, life is short
The poet breathes, recussitates, revives, renews
In every language of the world
Spirit & air are one & the same – spire, spirit
Respire, breathe out; expire, stop breathing
Aspire, breathe higher; inspire, give life
Yahweh, Allah, God
The spirit moves us as wind in the trees
Unseen, though present, animating
We all give voice to what’s within 
As the forest gives voice to the wind
And so I end as I begin

I am Späces, the poet's muse
And I bring something old and something new
For your pleasure and profit
Come, if these few words do thee delight
Fill up this space on this day of nights.
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