It’s an art really, more like sculpting than anything else I can think of, this pulling down of invisible clouds into words on paper, nothing, suddenly transformed into meaning, more like magic, perhaps, than art, more like sorcery, perhaps, than work, for I can keep my head down, as my fingers move across keys, a heart spell casting light onto quiet, and when I look up to the glowing hum screen, there is a story, a character, the movement of wind, a willow tree, a plump robin, a lover, the shape of her face, her hips, her mouth, anything that I can dream of can flash its way into the imagination of a poem, and it is born in words, born of my consciousness and the combination of thought and sound, the sound being the echoes of the words in my head as I hear them being typed out, drum, I hear myself talking and making shapes out of air, tilting my wrists into dance, cupping my fingers around tangibility newly birthed, from nothing, and now a poem suddenly, is. It’s an art really, more like magic than anything else I can think of.