Writers often do despair of staring blank at blank white sheet
The naked onus is to fill judiciously
To silent say what is a need, no more no less
To mete out hard truth and fragile beauty like rare thread
But you will seldom hear despair of staring darkly into inky well
The truth is there, that every word drawn out of it is destined to fail
The truth, I fear, is bleak. The well is most opaque,
into which a fragile truth might, like a penny wish, sightless sink
Ink black, paper white, the writer knows his own hubris
and fears any hope is a like mistake
But must hold truth that blackest ink and whitest sheet
are last exhale of pulpy carbon tree
Poets task is not as engineer. Ink in words
is only slowed and followed spill and swell
Lines laid down like ordered thought are dark water's
cutting courses to root rich earth and thirsty fertile ground
The story so far is bleak, yet it persists
of its own power, not by me but through
with the same natural mystery that drive toward dark well
both sunlit stream and obscured roots of tree
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