When I feel the icy wind, on the road less traveled.
Dare I look to the stranger in the path?
His eyes and hands hard as the ice.
Their voices soft as the snow.
Who is this man, who might make the winter, melt?
I find in my thoughts and from ashes rising so made the metal quicken.
Would that I could reach into the fire and pull out an ember.
Would it burn me so I wonder?
Its funny how things might be so simple.
If situations allowed.
If simple words are the breath of life.
Then simple words make great works.
If poets make for inspiration, its artists they inspire.
To conjure dragons and spirits hence made with gold and fire.
Poetry made flesh and words woven by threads.
Made manifest by hands so kept from ire.
It is poems that spark these notions that to be born from my hands.
The soul inspired in lurid detail, sets my ones mind to working.
With their words, their hearts, and grateful thanks I move.
I read, I make, I am.