For the love of his muse
a poet commits the ultimate heresy
in defiance of all that is holy in the sciences
the poet bends the rules of cause-and-effect
so that through his humble offering to his muse
he might exceed himself in poetry
in his passion to please his muse he closes his mind to words
and opens his heart to. . . what is beyond the words?
what is it that lies within and without words?
he opens his heart
thus defying the rules of civilized conversation
the poet opens the journal to a white page
his pen is taken by a wind that can’t be named
dances the virgin page
inky traces upon the face of the fresh fallen snow
his pen moving of its own volition
just the slightest arc – spark where the nib bites the paper
his pen . . . not unlike a silent, silver dust devil dancing a dervish
who has taught his pen this dance?
who has taught this page
this thin paper page to hold
against all distraction to hold
to hold till breaking or burning or rain . .
to hold till Death. . .
the poet silent at last
he lays the pen down
the poet now at rest in the alabaster arms of the snowy page
specked with words
the poet at rest
in the arms of his muse