Ars Poetica
  
 A poem slips open into your hand
 like a cracked egg falling, wobbly but whole,
 into your old blue china mixing bowl,
 nascent but complete, soon to be transformed—
  
 new matrix binding chance observation,
 puzzled memory, and flash points of insight
 with enough artistry to draw attention.
 Some few go deep, bring a bright steel rivet
  
 to strengthen the battleship of the brain;
 platinum threads to reweave a broken heart,
 mending its weary net. Where there is pain,
 we cry out to our old mother art.
  
 Cake or bread? Confection or contusion?
 A poem serves up its startling fusion.
  
 Leslie Schultz 

Thank you for joining me for this circadian exploration of words and pictures during April! Wishing you a season filled with exciting discoveries, poetic, pictorial, and otherwise!

  LESLIE