Magic is words

Words are my trade and if you so choose
I shall darn you a sentence.
To sit with you on a sweltry day,
when the sun leaves you
parched and faint.
To dance on your tongue
as you taste the rain
and the earth floods your brain.

Somedays though, my words look lost,
wheezing for a letter to make them anew.
Stumbling behind, I herd them into a pen.
Later, I will squeeze some out,
braid their hairs, softly whisper love
and coax'em on to a line.

Let me seal those with a lingering kiss.
And deliver them unto you,
the only begetter of my hopes.

Read them loud and long.
Smile maybe at those waving shapes.
It might do them good.
Your breath may hearten than mine.
The artist has no magic
but what the audience gives.  

Now my words are never born
or face clothed indifference.
Words are easier wished than tried.
"Everything under the sun" is a sham
and so die words of import.

My red letter box has started to rust,
the words unasked.
And half-hearted gestures
turn them gray.
One day I shall take a bat to it all
and feel the wood quiver with the paint's kiss.

Soon, I will sunder my pen
and turn the words loose.
May a handful whisper to you.