The Maker

My words come alive at night.
Sometimes they blossom like a nascent flower,
sometimes they scurry through my head like a frenzy of ants.
curious lines so different from one another,
yet always there, a tiny connection.

My words live and die through my hands, through my fingers.
The words that form in my brain,
that tickle my heart with fervent meanings.
But why at night, in the evening, when I am away from the world?
And there is the answer- freedom for the words,
the words so different with always that tiny connection.
The impetus that makes words come alive:

About the Author


From Bad Dirt during Winter's Bone and Saved by the Holy Spirit's Redeeming Grace

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