on writing

Brand-new satin smooth paper pad in one hand,
         firm rod of pen in the other:
This is who I want to be, and want is a word
         that starts too weak and ends too scant
For this phototropic force bending my very bones
         to the light of words, wonderful words.

I hold words in too much reverence to slap them
          around like freestyle finger paint
Or to think a five-star, six-course creation
         can be fired up from fast food.
It is not in my nature anyway to pursue something
         not susceptible to perfection.

But the light warms my cold hands, stone stiff
           around these tools of an archaic hope,
Whispers to wrap myself, warp myself, whatever it takes
          to seize the streams of sun.
Siren song, daring me, undefiable, the light refracts
          into shards that dagger my fear.

Really it is the voice beyond the words, the spark-setter
          of the sun, that does the singing.
Really it is out of obedience I pick up this pen,
         with no promise of perfection at the end.
Really it is the hope of glory that falls on me like light,
         this weighty and wordless wonder.

{ photo by Art Lasovsky on Unsplash ; hope of glory }

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