To string, as one, in a formal line
Words which alone mean nothing more
Than what they are: the essence of
Water in a bottle. Stored.
Watch the river as it laughs on by
Does it know the tides haven't risen?
Its currents and waves are now bound for the shelves,
Liquid freedom in a plastic prison.
Superficial writers, in their venturing art
Of stringing liquid into their words,
Experience their joy not from telling a poem,
But the acclaim of having it heard.
But you are not like that. Poetry is
For you as the sun is for trees.
Essential for life, but not limited to
Commercial desires and needs.
I think I know then, why you smile and write:
To watch as your honest words unfold.
Before your eyes, the pure clarity lies.
In the darkness, it's tinted with gold.
Your songs, your words, so clearly they sing,
Abyssal as the halcyon sea.
You certainly have a way with words...
Or maybe just with me.