Music comes from the piano
one note at a time.
The word spreads
syllable by syllable.
Beauty is a tributary
of rivers.
The coat is hung in the closet
day by day,
until it knows you
and becomes your skin.
Lesson by lesson a student grows,
a ballerina dances,
a canny fisherman
catches fish,
the grace in an artist
finds creation
in his failures,
and eyes that travel
faster than light.
Fill a canvas with color.
Fingers give texture to dough,
the voice that sings
finds words,
the door that is opened
lets night in,
the baptism of rain,
the sun with the day,
until the walls are cleansed.
And the soul
can enter the house of itself
with the world inside,
greater than ever imagined,
molding the sand of childhood
again and again,
until a castle remains,
and the tide circles it
with light,
as one of its own.