Recall those boisterous moments,
the many that come before quill inks parchment
just after an artist has stepped
out of the motions of life.
His mind's eye newly woken
is blurredly rolling
in search of inspiration.
The stream of everyday
looks mashed in waves crashing passed
the gentle
but somewhat hasty current of memory.
And so he waits
curving lines upon letters
to sift the stars among the sand.
Cleaning crusty excess from what might be a gem,
an aurora of mental possibility
finally filed down to a more narrow channel
still not perfect but definitely more manageable,
clear crystal reveals a blank landscape
his quiet place inside
which, lacking all else,
is a place to begin.
