A word, then two, a fountain like a stream
That wears away a mountain. Time, a spring,
Reflection over aeons; it can bring
Perfection. Though it presses down, extreme
In ways of mystery. Its form can seem
To press its history: On such a common thing
As common coal–transformative–may wring
A diamond fine and whole. And so supreme
A form may limit, yet such limits might
Become the set of forces pressed upon
So commonplace a line as these I write.
The queen of all poetic forms: I fight
Her storms of pressure, educated on;
And open up my mind to all her light.