The Spark

Where do the words come from?I don’t know, they float on the breezeor stride into my kitchen loudlywith timpani and brasses orpetal soft they creep like nocturnalkittens who carry destiny in scrollshooked to their collars and I mustcatch them gently or lure themwith catnip or a plate of mackerelin the open carrier ready to pullthe string and shut the door ontheir cubicle till I can disengagethe scrolls from their collarsand put the words on paperfilling a manuscript. Or the wordscome pouring out onto the pagefrom the ethers in the voiceof lesser or major characterstwisting in ways I can’t expecttaking fast turns I can’t foresee,making a detour froma perfectly good road.Unknown creative forcesdance to a tune theyplay on a dulcimer I didn’t evensee them carry into the room.