The Writer’s Call: A Poem

Your words must clear
the ground for love,
I heard it all declare.
I kissed my pen, swore
this decree to air.

Then set to work
on bended knee,
a childlike creep
through house and street,
to clean through
what’s encrusted there.

It’s done for you,
kind reader, dear,
who walks my words
across the page,
who seeks clear space
in marks I make:

that glisten in
your gleaning eye,
that shines with mine,
us both to see
how in the clearing,
all can be.

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