(for my friends...) Waiting for water to boil There the water laps against the mental meniscus, the anticipated gestation of words, awaited thoughts, a pregnant memory swollen anticipation. Into the liquid light, a gilded sphere, rising, expanding all that could or would be said, to shine through glass, to be read as shimmering crystals of clarity ride the musing chastity of the unspoken, unwritten, unrhymed. When does life excite innocence simmering into a slow rising roil a mindless toil of listening to the sound, to the stewing, the bubbling of something becoming? How many hours have evaporated waiting for water to boil, tending the inner turmoil of a rising poem?
Posted on: Mon, 01 Jul 2013 05:34:17 +0000
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