(From the Bench at the Bend in the Trail)
Remember: each word is a mystery, A thing to be handled like fire or love.
Tramp like a fool through the whispering wood And you’ll never lay eyes on the singer.
Carefully, carefully, stand back and wait. Watch where the word goes, behold how it moves:
Its nuance and hue, its contour and weight– It flits like a finch, just over the page.
Only at last, when it trusts you enough, It alights and allows you to write it.