Creating
Is being alive
Is placing that all familiar thing:
Hands in the handle of a hammer
Baby-finger grasps on a wand of charcoal
Or oil pastel,
Words in waiting on the tongue like
Pools of water in ready leaves
Shiny and waxen.
Some white hot heat
Warming the soul
At its pouring out
Onto paper or canvas
Or crowds of faces
The air around you
Heavier with the weight of
The uncreated things
That you carry
Waiting for you to be ready for them
And to sing
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