INCOMPETENCY

I sometimes churn out utter tosh -
meaningless, not deep; sprawling, not neat.
But, occasionally, I re-read it through and discover
an atom of Soul expression embedded
within these incompetent words, then I know
it's worth all the extra hard graft and frustration.

When people ask my why, I reply
"Why are Nuns drawn to the Convent?"
Theirs is a calling, so is mine:
a perception of something most profound
that demands from me utter devotion.

So I take out another sheet of paper
and dream myself into it's fabric.
Studying it's subtly mottled whiteness,
it begins to speak to me of a tree
whose noble sacrifice enables my craft.

And this sacrifice is preying upon my mind,
honing in like the sight on a gun.
And I cannot stop it - the strange conviction
of guilt that is powerfully compelling me
to record the feeling - and express it right!

Now the tree is embracing me in tender green
as if in forgiveness for the pain I've inflicted.
And I've become one with her rising sap,
her deep roots, her joy of living -
until all is cut short by the brutal felling.
And I'm moved to tears by this sheet of paper
and my wretched inability to find the words...