for Eddie Fung
What is this craft I practice patiently?
I don’t just make a verse, but let it be;
I set it free from where it dwells within
By quieting the raucous outward din
And sitting in serenity until
The words arrive as if by their own will.
Waiting till spirit moves me, like a Quaker,
I am as much observer as a maker.
My mind flows on, impelled by meter’s beat,
While rhyme awaits to make each thought complete,
All while the shape of fourteen lines demands
A certain arc that rises and then falls,
That reaches to an apogee and stalls,
But sputters back to life and safely lands.