A twist of the wrist is all it takes
to start the day, transfer the spark,
the morning dark,
to a ring of fire. The stove awakes
into a useful burn
one burner at a time. The boil,
the bake, the broil—
each takes its turn
to propagate incendiary flame,
and all from this one light,
its only expertise: ignite.
Words are much the same.
It took composer and college teacher Donald Wheelock forty years of writing formal poetry to reach the stage of submitting his favorites for publication. Formal poetry, once relegated to second fiddle in a career of writing chamber, vocal and orchestral music, has now demanded equal time. Indeed, it has taken over his life.