THE LAST RITUAL
Ere the poem can claim it’s place,
comes first the devoted reader of my lines;
that trusted someone,
that extra set of eyes,
who walks among the words of rhyme,
who reads aloud the whims I wrote,
the unfinished thought,
the missing phrase,
the quiet inflection lingering
where my instincts failed to go.
When, or where to breathe,
to pause, to rewrite.
How, or when to arrive
where the poem itself
strives to go;
how to be a portal
in the link from you to me,
the calm assurance
my wandering verse will know
when it’s truly
found its end.
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