A visit to the library,
And returning I opened the book
I’d waited for a long impatient month.
Knowing it to be brim full of inspirational words, 
I had only to read a few paragraphs
When it came to me,
When there was this moment 
Poets call epiphany.
 
Into another place, beyond the printed page, mysteriously I slipped. I think it’s where your creative spirit lives and thrives, a place your flowing thoughts reside. There, the energy of your spirit flashes in the dark, and there exists the archetypes of all your inward eye brings forth. There the marked surfaces carry the chemerical accident of objects placed and pressed, and there the passage of your sewing hand’s rich rightness of intuition guides. In tandem they touch me to the quick; they scare and scar me. And why? – I sense in them this vigor; a potency no less, strength so wholly absent from my declining store of sad objects and false fashionings.
 
And all that careful reasoning 
I'd so variously composed, 
badly articulated,
tiresomely presented 
became then as nothing, 
nothing against the truth
of what you make 
and what I know you are.