Out of the dissolution of my mind
Precipitates the crystal of a thought,
And thus a verse begins, which then may bind
With other bits until a poem is wrought.
Where nothing was but a chaotic storm,
As if by magic, here appears a form.
Or is it, rather, being lost in woods
No path or track or trace to find my way,
Or being swept along by turbulent floods
Pounded and confounded and astray?
But then a light appears, a hand descends,
I come to ground, and my confusion ends.