A Tool

The binding of the book beckoned

To step back and be aware.

I explored its depths

And discovered its secrets.

It possessed the quality of

A modest flame atop a candle.

Simple and illuminating.

Observe the unobserved

And direct the chatter.

Guide it through a gate

Of natural choosing.

Paint the picture, but

Never surrender to conceit.

The picture is never complete.

It lies on the easel

Urging use without finality.

It is the hammer resting

On the craftsman’s belt;

The trowel in the hands

Of a gardener.

Fluidity with the whole

Will be its hallowed creation.

Carried by the river and

This shall be so.

Run alongside it, chase

the idea — its glamour -

So shall be a forest of thick brush.

Cutting through the brush

I find it grows denser.

Jump in, beckoned the book,

Or surrender to that which

Lurks behind the chatter

And tall tales of the mind.

Shadows of the ego.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.