POEM: Ars Poetica

One cannot write poetry if he cannot recall the words
Calligraphed long ago on the walls of his own heart.
The poem is unearthed more than written –
Scratched out in exquisite long hand -
Discovered as the blueprint for the Truth.
In sloping curlicue script of whimsy,
These dervish lines look more like tracks in snow
More than words - made by the winter snowshoe hiker -
Intent to make his way home after a day of discovery.
One does not write a poem so much, as one transcribes
The music that is always playing in the deepest places
that is the dark matter of a human.

We must be willing to release a powerful silence
Into this noisy world, like young brook trout
That are released back into the wild, full of the lust
Of early spring, hoping to feast on flies and spawn.

For if the poem is a flower, then silence is the rich earth.