I read the words
Of my fellow poets –
Not as a text,
But as a warmth
They inspire me
In the silent way
Of a creeping tide to a shore
I dream of what they think
As they write –
Whether the verse comes to them purely
Or whether it resonates within
Like a small god
Where do they place their feet
When the passage doesn’t find its mark?
On tiles?
On cold wood?
On the back of an unfinished thought?
How do they let their hearts
Free like flax in the wind,
Or is it nailed, precise,
A firey offering
To an indifferent sky
I wonder about
The distance from the ocean
To the place where their eyes gaze,
If they measure it in kilometers
Miles or in longing…
We are like palm readers
Tracing futures on our paper skin
That forgets us until morning
Scriveners of psalms
Half-believing our own
Graphically trembling voices
And yet… how quickly we
Contemplate our own writing
Dismissing the sacred as insufficient
Crumpled at times
Each of us, a silent heir
Mirroring the flame from a
Stone we claim as our own
While the mountain range hums
Beneath the page—this
A sweet urge to speak a truth
And to survive it
Reaching out through the
Thin electric veil, intertwined
A constellation of invisible hands
Touching nothing
Touching everything
© GÄ
Poétique 