I cannot wring water from stone
There is no kneading of air to make my bread
And words, like water, must have a source
There has never been a carrot tempting enough, perhaps
To make me pump for water, rather
Than spill what must overflow anyways
A writer…I cannot deny it
But, the joy is all in the spilled writing, see it?
The math of my exultation, thoughts+attention+neural acrobatics=a translation of what is, filtered through one soul, though small, bringing some light, some beauty
Well suited to be a hermit
Lend me a shovel, for I have a talent I’d like buried
Why? It is easier. What if I offered it and they said it had no light, no beauty?
Who can put out their own heart on the auction block?
Tell me, how do you get the hermit
To give her littlest light? To give such small beauty?