The final poem is not intentional.
It slips into the corner of the eye
unsought, yet with the fine wrought property
of a long time-drawn, mature accomplishment.
It is the trophy of a disposition
at once alert, nuanced and attentive –
no rage for order, rather the felt sense
of knowing before knowledge; the just tone
that arches across dissonance. Indeed
it is the painting that precedes the palette,
the pattern that invents its rationale
in retrospect, the momentary rest
inducing superhuman satisfaction
for the maker made creator not by will
but by a divine penchant, an endless urge
to bring the whole together in delight.