Machado, Lorca, Neruda, Jiménez
Every poet has a beginning;
every river begins somewhere—
raindrops, then pools, a lake,
circles in the mist.
You are young. You have not met
your angels yet. Then it happens:
on the table—a knife;
on the white linen of a page—
language sliced open like a melon.
You go out, looking for the road.
You do not know if you are worthy.
You just want to be with them,
touch their sandals, wash their feet,
know a little of their courage,
walk, listen, learn: speak,
one day, perhaps,
one beautiful sentence
with those disciples of the word.
© The Estate of Sandford Lyne