It’s What I Do

When words are not enough
I drift into the murky realm of poetry.

Moulding, shaping, sculpting the language
Giving form and substance to mists and ethers.
The same words but with different meaning,
Expressing the inexpressible, defining the undefinable
A fool’s errand, tilting at windmills
That none can see save me.
A sculptor sculpts, a painter paints,
Then stands back in wonder and some regret.
Wonder at the magic that brought forth this thing,
Regret that now it is done. 
It is finished.
Lest another tap with the chisel,
Another stroke of the brush
Would push that newly minted thing
Beyond the reach of even its creator
Or destroy it altogether..
In my imperfect way I sense something sublime.
My first instinct is to clutch it close to heart,
Amazed and bemused that such a thing
Should come unbidden to me.
What providence should intersect my path
With this imperfect glimpse of the sublime?
Now, what to do with it?
But there it is, 
A potential to be realized.
If only, if only, if only I had the words.
The same words that inform my daily chatter
But put to different use.
Reassemble the order, juxtapose this and that.
Take words and build a house of cards
That serves to represent a spark
Or perhaps just a faint glimmer.
So easily brought down with a careless gust.
I think that is what I do,
But I’m not really certain.
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This has been a Piperguy48 production
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