It is easier for me to write
Than it is for me to sketch or paint
For one thing I am less certain
Of my mistakes, with the written word
Also I am able to go back in time
To many places; all at a once almost
And I can root around, to find my feelings
To gather in; my past, my present emotions
And as I attempt to convey what I feel
Of love, lust, longing, and loss
I myself share in, and enrich my imagination
With feelings, of love, lust, longing, and loss
The writer's world is left, right, back, and front
Above, and below
To the very extremes of perception
Writings of witnessing the vanishing horizon
Between land, and sky, and sea
Listening intently, and seriously engaged
By David Hockney, talking on the radio
About art, as I soaked in my moonlit bath
The certainty, that one word will follow another
A couple of words will be offered up to me
By a view, by music, by dance-steps, by a film
Of the seasons; meditations, an island in a lake
And, in contrast
By the doubt that the words will not be read
Or will not be understood
By the person, or by the audience
For whom they were aimed at
For whom, and without whom
They have no purpose
Neither in this life, nor in the next life
