To write this verse is quite like giving birth:
The seed is an idea from outside;
The egg is in my mind, of little worth
Until its walls are breeched and occupied.
Till then there’s only latency in wait
That lacks the stirring of some potency
To urge it toward conception of its fate,
Its consummation in integrity.
But who am “I” who hears and writes these lines,
Marveling and observing all the while?
A midwife with no part in their designs
Except to, now and then, redress their style.
So I stand by assisting where I can
A process far beyond the power of man.