Ars Poetica: The Hidden Light
The attempts: I stare out the window,
then run into the other room
to the mirror. Yes,
I'm still here. Tea helps,
just the act of moving my hand
as if it were touching the ground
like the Buddha, one hand down,
one up, sipping my way into heaven.
But now what I'd really like
is a poem, yes, a long trail
of words into some corner,
then a door in the wall
and a path to new ground,
summer, winter, I don't care,
just so it's ars poetica,
somewhere to rest my mind
as I listen to the music
of the window, the sky
that rests there, trees, the words
between branches,
the birds in the trees.
Now I smell the flowers
still underground yet
always growing just as
the stars continue to float above us
even when our world is light
and their light is hidden.
—Nellie Hill