Poetry flows from the fingertips like threads of silk
Birds have nests and spiders webs
And humans friendships.
But webs too. And nests come to think of it.

Looking a little closer we see a big blender of some sort.

In goes our friends;
Dead generations;
Our parents;
The leaves in a bright cellophane jumble;
The raindrops on the gardenside window;
Airplanes and cars and baths;
The lumpy mess of mediated words and images and buttons and sliders,
Which we in our gracious way find a place for sometimes in the attic, and sometimes right up front.

It all goes into the big blender with some rocks.

Out comes kisses,
Back pain from sitting too long presumably,
Poetry from the fingertips, nests from the hands,
Webs from the mouth and feet,
Sundays doing nothing by the lake or on the couch,
Tears, harshly echoing words and blows,
Unspeakable acts.
In the world and unavoidably against the world.
We kick in unison and make monstrous eddies that sweep us all away.

Soon we will rework that blender into a prism.
In will go the world, as above.
Out will go the solid, warm light.
Probably unfocused at first,
But we are a quick study and
We will learn to project the world as it really is.
Not chopped up with a damn blender!