Working the Loom

Music can paint words in my mind,

Not lyrics, for Classical is often the best when writing;

But wonderful stories and scenes.

A soaring eagle over the half-scorched Sahel,

A quiet quartet playing for two,

After the hundreds of guests have left,

Rocking back and forth against each other,

Feeling without trying.

Just as easily, sometimes,

The words come to me.

Yet others, the words are hard to pull from my mind.

They begin, like the tip of an iceberg,

Poking its icy head above the arctic waves,

But the other words remain buried in the cold depths of my id,

Tangible, but just out of reach.