I sit to write...but cannot think.
No words roll glibly from my pen
as it weaves across the paper,
then stands poised to write again.
No brilliant flash...no easy lines.
I'm pulling and pulling but cannot find
the proper bridge from thought to word.
Rhymes are easy...a mere contrivance,
and words of themselves...just a game
that any fool, with practice, can play.
But each image has one poignant name,
one word to call old feelings to the fore,
fueling memory's warm rush once more.
Find the word and you find the heart,
and that has always been the difference
between commonplace and Art.