#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream

All the berries in the morning meadow

A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit,

Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb,

Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown--

A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds. . .

~ Excerpt from “Ars Poetica,” Archibald MacLeish

It was wet, yet warm and the leaves are past their peak, but still shining against the gray sky. I had less time than I hoped, but long enough to go into the meadow, mowed and wide open. I was thinking about my poem, the one I shared last night, and what it needs, and how to make it “wordless as a flight of birds.” Frank called, and as I talked about the poem I felt emotion rising, as if I was really recognizing that there is something as yet hidden, unexpressed. What I call the “secret reveal.” What is trying to work it’s way up from the unconscious, from memory, from intuition, that is wanting to have shape and be shared and be seen and be heard and be mine, and then, not mine only.