|wordsmith, imagesmith, spiritsmith|
Poems shelter and hide inside my head,
or are they lurking in my toes?
Words of prose are less than shy, so easily said.
I find them wherever my day goes.
They flutter and bounce along the tongue
natural as God above,
no effort required to say “well sung,”
“let’s go,” spread news, or ask for love.
But words aspoke evaporate, echoes decaying in the ear,
fact-filled with where, when, why and what,
bland as gray, unworthy of recall, kept without tear
no longer than needed, and then, ah, so soon forgot.
But words of rhyme, brewed in joy, spawned in sorrow,
get crafted once, then held aloft, not for today but for tomorrow.