~an artwork beneath our feet, yet invisible to
our eyes, constantly changing ,interlocking
interlinking~

this poem has asked for composition
everytime, I walk upon and past the sculputure
beneath my feet on the Esplanade by The River

(Diatom Lace on the East River - Stacy Levy
www.stacylevy.com › projects › diatom-lace-on-the-east-river)  (1)

but as I daily hurry past (for years) and over this pattern form lifted from the
river's flowing,
a daily delaying,
for the words good enough to honor it, the invisible floating floral tentacles,
attaching each water molecule to the next,
do not arise of sufficient quality of wordsmithy,
the Whitman words do not float up from the waters rushing past,
and come to rest in my multi-tasking poetry conceptuals

many months, even years,
have gone by and after every water walk,
the sculpture stabs me guilty,
of procastination,
and an unwillingness to tackle it,
like the other tough stuff that haunts me

so this morning, when I drown in the file laughingly called
100 & One Drafts
a J'accuse (1) finger stabs my eyes and repeats the caveat of the sage
Hillel the Elder: (1)
If not now, when?

and even as I sit and compose,
the words refuse to surrender unto me
for easy transcription
and the chest tight with guilt, from all the
promises I've made and remain
unkempt & unkept,
that stunt and stun my spirit,
with inconsolable sadness

So
I distract myself,
check the sleeping woman<
take my morning meds,<
reheat my "The Gamblers Mug" (Cezanne)(1) of morning coffee,<
and alas, at last, once more surrender to my worst,
and issue an invitation to >you<
come visit me, come walk with me,
perhaps together, a greater good will emerge,
and we will feed each others tongues
with syllables and sounds,
that will trigger,
go figure!
a suitable poem
worthy of a great art work,
the lace of diatoms
in the water,
that our eyes cannot see,
but our hearts
can feel
and with better words,
be so honored,
by a poem
truly worthy
of this

miraculous
conception

O chattering Camha… O blooming garden,
Lift the world’s weight—do not harden.
Sprinkle snowflakes upon our wound,
O wondrous embroidery… O eyes deepened.

O lips, whose blooming is yet unknown,
A question lingering, never shown…
You came, my summer, in a symphony
Of swallows soaring, scents full-grown.

O veil of lace, draped over wealth,
Be dazed—for wonder is health.
Isn’t there a shaded corner for me,
Among almond trees and sandalwood’s breath?

O Camha… I was a blazing fire,
That in a moment, turned into a stream.
Cushions of apples, raised before me—
How could I not lean in and dream?

The black lily, longing, whispers low:
"Feast on our petals, let passion grow."
A piece of lace—my vessel it became,
If the dew departs, so shall my name.

Row me across a moon so dim,
A planet lost—a world grown grim.
O sail of goodness, do not shy,
Silken cocoons need not deny.

Venture forth! The eastern wind calls,
What are we if not dreamers enthralled?
Beneath the shadow of a shadow’s grace,
A thousand dawns in waiting fall.

O wonder of wonders, O Camha bright,
O velvet praying on velvet light

I love her sweet and sour
the taste, I devour
addicted to the scent .
Finger licking good.
Like a strong whiskey sour,
an acquired taste,
established pleasure.
I liquor lace,
she comes with haste
to the third power.