A poem is words in hiding, dark and cloaked:
A shade at dusk that moves unseen, unheard.
This art, this flame, at times too wild as smoke;
Not grasped like coin which man does hope to hoard.
This art, a quest, a step, we stride, begin…
The will to flare the path and light the way,
Our eyes to see, and ears they strain to listen,
So shapes may live as words in ordered play.
Patience! A poem may not be plucked too soon:
Unripe its taste will sour Her weaving work;
But silence lets the art unfold to bloom;
For art will flower with time, its Nature’s work.
Our works are seeds to plant that Nature weaves,
Through grind and toil there grows the art to please.