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To A Poetic Time Line
For Poets of Poetic Faith
The mind hangs in silence
All is stilled—thoughts lingering
Lazily as if in a cosmic animation;
No words drip from the faucet
That once streamed waters of creation.
Now there’s only empty air passing over idle lexis.
How deceiving is the thought.
Idle mind. Like a dormant volcano
Quietly create its inner explosive flow,
So does the idle mind—its own.
No creation is void of time—
Time, itself, the elusive of all creation;
Is not she the Garden of Eden within herself?
Katydids are time in metamorphosis; babes
In the womb; black holes their dept of time’s time.
In all creation time is an instant of the eternity of self.
The poem is a creature of time—creation
In the womb if mind—fertile words.
All birth is a timed delivery.
While time its self does not wait
We must wait on the timing of time
And in time: The poem comes.
