Weaving a Poem

Poets take hold of one thread, Ponder it , turn it over to question its strength. They brush it against the azure face of the sky, dip it in the warmth of the sun, teach it the language of water and the whispers of wind… They wrap it around the crystal droplets of rain falling on a ravenous narcissi. Then wait with the faith of hermits for the breath of the night to blow about disoriented threads out of the silver aura of the moonlight and the intermingled zephyr of the seasons. Dangling them from the gold-dripping edges of stars, they weave them into a galaxy of feelings mixed with the wildness of life