Athens, Georgia
June 14, 2011; revised January 6, 2015
A million poems that might be made,
and each one phrased a million ways –
but one is said, the others dead
and never more than fleeting thoughts
that twitter past mind’s eye half read
and gone, but one that lingers on
defines the mind that gives it life.
In minds there lurk a million states
expressing thought a trillion ways –
within each moment one congeals,
the others hover not yet real
left hanging from a golden thread
that loops through mind outside of time
to bind the poems we thought were dead.
The hand that writes a poem down
and makes it real outside the mind,
a concrete form that’s fossilized
in frozen death until it’s said
aloud or read by kindred souls,
in thought to make the poem live
and resurrect my mind from thread –
A million lines that I might write
all fight for life outside my head
to die and rise when thought anew –
the few I love and bring to life,
I gently leave their fate to you
for that, dear soul, is why I write,
that song is why I live.