Glory To the Maker

It is good to be alive. The date and time on a digital clock sings me a sotto voce halleluiah as I roll over into the surf of a shallow listlessness. This is how a poem arrives, In a leaky boat loaded with refugees all slowly coming ashore. Some refuse to shout out, some clamor for attention. I am threading ghosts through the eye of a needle – not easy unless you are a blatherskite. The voices come nearer. I am multilingual in a non-vocal way. Poets need to be rescued from their own silence. Then maybe, the birds will sing out, the sky will be born again, and the maker will make coffee and write something.