He is the loner
In the ‘mad?’ world of creation
Seeing and smelling
Hearing and feeling and tasting
From ordinary things
What ordinary humans cannot
Creating from nothing something
With poetic magic
And the skill of a smith
He billows words into a furnace
And weilds them into new patterns
And from his high towers of
imagination
With new creations cupped in
hand
He descends to let his audience
Feel the cool soothing wind
hear its swift swishing sound
as it whitles through roses
to hear the rhythm of mating
between wind and rose
to smell its sweet scent
and to crash its riddle
in the budding rose.