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
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