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A poet ponders the path will he be led to one of pearls or one of grass? Few have travelled for the look in their eyes, that reflect words he as written. A poet knows the life is hard avoiding people and chores and the lack of time outdoors. For he cannot be disturbed by outside distractions. Time to write is at a premium. Precise interludes are all that he has. A poet's morphemes dream of what happens where and when are his bane, but it is also his fame. He ponders which words to use in conveying thoughts of life and what is in it. Knowledge is abstract at it's finest, but a knowing, well that is "it". So in valuing solitude he values air the breath the wind the sound of both. Essentially everything is essential. The work remains in the fine art of assembly. The layers, brick by brick. Blueprint rolled up for a view. Reflections mirrored by an ice covered hill. A cardinal perched on a snow covered fence resembling flame. The warmth of a lover's breath on neck. A dying--- a friend, family member a leaf. Dealing with reality a poet comes to realize it's an illusion but from where it comes is left to God. For a poet dabbles in the quickening. The form of words that represent the invisible. To look in the mind's eye and see out a window across a lake, them form the vision in words, beautiful words. To be in that knowing. There are many things for a poet to know, for one a poet cannot by diplomatic, for diplomacy conceals thought. A poet deals with the invisible daily. He knows the magic of poetry. For his imagination will make a poem appear. No less a magician. To know this passion of intellect, aware, and fully free pondering the next private and profane visit of obsession, is truly a gift for the forever pondering poet.
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