Poetic Ideal: a language scrubbed clean by silences.
If we listen, the air is heavy with poems, ripe for plucking.
Branches are roots, too, in the sky.
Perhaps it is not poetry that purifies the language of the tribe, but Silence.
The true poet, or mystic, is not too proud to admit that, in matters great and small, they cannot proceed until they receive further instructions.
One never becomes a poet, except when they are writing a poem.
Yahia Lababidi, “Skipping Stones,” Berfrois (12 October 2012)