Are they any different from you?

Do you know ways that I do not know?

Will you teach me -- And make me anew?

I am clay -- Shape me as you must

I am dry, but the ocean is unending.

Sprinkle some water on this long forgotten mould,

And shape me -- To the ways of relenting.

I am not a magician with words, not even a philanthropist. 

I would say I am a carver, or wielder, shaping the matter

I have into forms I desire, or want to know. 

I carve, or wield, a page into a bust of a poem.  With my chisel,

Or hammer of a pen, I shape a page into a forest of stanzas -

Motmots and orioles and plovers flapping through leaves of white space,

Harts and does grazing a field of letters. 

I do not hide words under my sleeves, on occasion there may be a

Chocolate bar or a sandwich, but no words. 

I do not saw words in half, nor lock them in the cage of a well

Structured sentence and make them disappear.

Sadly, the words I write will not feed a child in Ethiopia, nor stop

A genocide or jihad. 

My words can not grow wheat or barley.

My words merely elicit a picture to distract you from the real world,

A world of frenzied killing and starvation,

A world where those who lead lead us to the next cycle of the Dark Age,

This time one of politics and social regress, social degeneration and...

I apologize. 

I just realized I strayed from my initial intention in the previous stanza.

I delivered you onto the same shore you wished to leave - if only for a few lines.

I am sorry.

Let me make it up to you.

A heron leapt over the hair of my legs while I lay in the grass yesterday,

A heron of such a gold hue that gold itself would shy its dull grin from her sight.

As the heron leapt over the hair of my legs she so delicately whispered,

"The world is perfect.  There is no need for anything to change."

I smiled, sighed my approval, and longed to fellow her to the ravine of forever.