A little thing of
a song it is--
composed in keen stanza.
The union of Creator and poet--
a divine marriage
of meter and image--
So I jot on,
seeking the mystical union
of starry climes and blotted ink.
But my images stumble,
shapeless shirts in my dryer
spinning round and round.
I grasp vainly,
trying to capture nebulous thought--
burning my fingers on hot metaphor.
Impressive images escape
the tip of my pen nib
where ink enters vibration of thought.
Is such grace intended for me?
Or am I as an appreciative listener doomed,
politely applauding others' gloried imagery
while stifling my own cracked voice,
unable to carry the tune?
--Cassandra Lowery, pen name for Susanne Barrett