The Spark

by Elizabeth Buttimer

Where do the words come from?

I don’t know, they float on the breeze

or stride into my kitchen loudly

with timpani and brasses or

petal soft they creep like nocturnal

kittens who carry destiny in scrolls

hooked to their collars and I must

catch them gently or lure them

with catnip or a plate of mackerel

in the open carrier ready to pull

the string and shut the door on

their cubicle till I can disengage

the scrolls from their collars

and put the words on paper

filling a manuscript. Or the words

come pouring out onto the page

from the ethers in the voice

of lesser or major characters

twisting in ways I can’t expect

taking fast turns I can’t foresee,

making a detour from

a perfectly good road.

Unknown creative forces

dance to a tune they

play on a dulcimer I didn’t even

see them carry into the room.