Driven by Poetry

Driven by Poetry

Poetry, my master,

demands unpaid service and

forces me—pay attention.

Words insist, images tumble,

persistent like dust balls on

hardwood floors, and sure as song.

Words wail, want, need, spill onto

the page from my black pencil,

rasping with rhythmic rumble.

Fingers cramp and dreams speak in

code,  clarity in my chest,

yet thinking in tongues.  My task,

to translate to the pale page

a vision, a truth, a tale

or some ordinary thing.

From it spin

…shimmering…

gold.

Photo is mine.