A stencil does not
A great artist make,
Nor does an easy day
An optimist make.
Just as a lightbulb cannot be called
Until it charitably exhumes its amber glow,
A man cannot be called sunlight
Until he has pressed his back to
The curtain of ebony steel,
And, like an apple,
Bid it fall.
Surf the current,
Let your feet find footing upon
The ocean’s tumultuous panting of a face.
Should the waves become weary,
The pearl of their grasp melting to gravel,
And let the dew droplets of sunlight
Become your alcove.