I have this special picture
of poetry at times
that goes so far beyond
all the words and rhymes

I see the poet picking
the emotions and the thought
then sifting, sifting, sifting,
to clean what he has got.

Then compressing into form
with all his skill and might
the essence and the heart
of his sacred inner sight.

And there it sits upon some page
holding love or silent rage
endless treasure there to find
all you have to add is mind.

And it will grow and grow
how far only you will know
for there may be in that verse
enough to fill a universe

Aye … sometimes enough to expand it.