Poetry Year August 14th

Every poem its own day

deep, dawn, noon, dusk, and dark.

The colors fade with every shifting of the words,

obscuring by clouds of distance,

life breathing meaning, that fills our lungs.

Every word its own droplet,

every droplet its own world,

filled with struggles for life and death,

more potent than any human war,

cells that absorb and rip asunder,

the very walls that bear in

the precious seed of life.

Every syllable its own language,

shaped just once, surrounded by its past and future,

heading, hurtling, towards its own destiny.

Every sound its own song,

as filled with all the melodies,

as there were ages in this and every other age.

Every stroke its own art,

a history from it's start to stop,

a slash across the face of very void.

Every ripple that sops the ink from brush,

every point that glows black or white,

every stubble that is filled with blank or verse,

every movement, for better or for worse.

Each of these will dissolve like dew,

for all I write, is filled with you.