At first the mind empty of words,
Filled with a silence never heard.
An idea thickens and takes shape,
An echo through eternity will make.
From an alphabet soup of the mind,
Into fair words of a far other kind.
How the letters take on their fate,
Assembled together next to a mate.
The As, Bs and Cs sway and swerve,
Life is born together with its verve.
Lacework sweeps into my fingertips,
Images are born from meagre sips.
Buttercups of mind lend their nectar,
Butterflies survey their own sector.
Words finally spill from my hands,
As autumn leaves fall on barren lands.
Verses now simply jump on the page,
If they had perfume, it would be sage.
The poem now complete, fully born,
Its edges smooth, its feet fully shorn.
Now born yet not alive, still lifeless,
Words not yet uttered, still wordless.
A new world now taken into a hand,
The child’s blue eyes opening like a fan.
Pudgy hands christen the creamy page,
Nodding anticipation like a saintly sage.
The child looked at the letters, mystified,
Then took a deep breath as if sanctified.
Silence now broken by a creation anew,
The first time to hear words no one knew.
The child read: Twinkle, twinkle little star;
The echo said: How I wonder what you are.
Angels heard: Up above the world so high;
The echo said: Like a diamond in the sky.
Back on earth: Twinkle, twinkle little star,
Eternal mystery: How I wonder what you are.
The simple question lingers to stir our hearts,
Night’s magic but a puzzle of individual parts.
Poems make new worlds that arrive at our feet,
To lead us down pathways the angels to meet.
Copyright © John Herlihy | Year Posted 2017