Not Yet

That first time, more than 40 years now
How many clock ticks like soft background music
For the streaming rush of words river
From the head origin brain source wellspring
All those syllables poured over pages
A whitewater struggle ride of zigzags and flip-overs
Near drownings times in death silent dark hard resounding
Quandary of forking tributaries and winding ways
A mazing gone in without string or crumbs to go back
Deep dives done in for a penny but never touching bottom
For breath too short to reach so high heart pounding
Never enough to serene clouds around words high flight
Just out of right reach and always grasping
Gasping of almost, and the sigh of not yet maybe ever never
When if the river can keep running and running on
May out of the mouth come wide birth
The word torrent that rounds out perfect waves
An ocean depth so wonderous with infinite width
That a dream flashes awake in that moment, pen up
When every word’s been written into a perfect silence