This morning I am wild and restless, my mind like a stallion, refusing to be broken, an animal heavy with mistrust, unsettled, scattered ~ I am misgiven. What does that mean? I don’t know any more than you do. Words are colors on a palette. Most choices are intuitive. I hardly ever deliberate and when it’s done, I never fuss at it.
I can’t draw a circle but this word painting is a gift, like music. Surely they’re cousins. If a poem has no music, and a symphony no poetry, their charm is limited. Robots could make art but it’d be flat and one dimensional.
When Scott was born, the magic and mystery of poetry seemed clear to me. To sing love’s praises is a human blessing. Surely animals know love but can’t put words to it.
Don’t waste your words. Don’t let a robot do your thinking for you. Dig deep. Write an epic of your life; inspire bravery and wisdom. Weave in humor, honor beauty, bless those who have loved you unfailingly. Use your words to make music. Let your soul sing, from your heart of hearts. Looking back on your life, remember it as beautiful.