Sorry for the delay but wasn't able to post this due to my Aunt's 60th birthday, this started in my head on the journey over there.
Can be found everywhere
if you train yourself to see them.
A strange turn of language in an article.
The cadence of a thought on a stranger's face.
Nature composing a hillside with a palette of trees.
They hold that glimmer of a first line
like the seam of a rich ore,
waiting for you to excavate.
To hue the strata of reality
until that unconditioned beauty
is revealed in a poem.
Your hand will not always produce
the priceless jewels that delight the eye.
Sometimes it can't quite hold the structure,
manage to excite the depths with polish
or dent it with the chisel of cliche.
Other times they just collapse
into fragments of rhyme and idea.
No matter how many days crumple like pages.
No matter how much the shadows of ink lengthen.
There's still time for that boundless seam,