Poet's Song

It is in the first of morning that I sense my magnum opus--there among that which is most mundane, and like a ghost that I may never see or touch-- of which I know no thing at all, except that he is there. I said it was not fair that he should haunt me, said that he is mine; let him emerge from shadow's shell and ride my lips, my mind, my passion, then release from spirit realm, no matter how diaphanous, another breath of truth. I know. As Adam felt a universe implode for him within his consciousness and as his sinews formed, he gave us God, creating in the endless dance among the stars, co-creating in our midst while light shone down, his own magnum file, (and for me as well) a pathway for retreating night. Then all the painters, sculptors, physicists called out for light, became aware of texture and the price of tears... and time and years could disappear. He is my friend, this little formless god who plods along with me, not big enough to share. "Come on, a little farther, there is starlight here," he says, "and you have not yet learned to dance." ~