I wish I’d sailed the seven seas across,
to talk of many icebergs, seen not heard,
experience, my prow, sidesteps their loss,
that I could say I’d used all of the word.

outside a flake caressed upon the sill
would less impress me, if I’d spilled
ten thousand off the peak of Everest,
forgoing naught but awe’s bright chill.

pen’s spilled but ink that fades into a shroud;
it dryly thirsts its earthly hour to bide,
inept to voice its thoughts before the crowd
and free the full-fleshed meaning trapped inside.

needs must I balance reason, rhythm, rhyme
and it’s for that that I am given time