Journeyman

I send you my work, raw, a dress with unfinished seams.

"Is it any good?" I ask

You spoil me, and return my poem polished and bright,

cloth that slides over my head, fits perfectly.

"How do you do it?" I ask "How do you pare away

The unnecessary and leave my voice shining through?"

You send me instructions, and humble thanks.

You, who are a master of your craft, a tailor of words,

perform alterations, sculpt your own works.

Wind Caves, Photo: Michael Gaige

But now you are gone.

And I, a student without a teacher, stand bereft.

I gape at my closet of words

"Are they any good?" I ask myself

I pull out your instructions, take the first poem from the hanger
and get out my purple pen.

I begin the work I should have learned long ago.

I check verbs, straighten the seams of time,

Cut away words that weaken

Hem and surge, measure and slice.

In your absence my tutelage begins.

I hold my new poem up to the light

Look for excess with an eye that gropes at impartiality.

Still the fabric bunches, the metaphor wears thin.

Stitches run amok, punctuation snags meaning

I long for your subtle touch.

I begin to feel my own way,

begin to gather the tools of my craft, to call them my own.

I heft a growing responsibility to set free words that arise

I begin to trust the work,

to hang it out on the line, polished and bright.

I offer it to you, dear reader,

"Is it any good?" I ask