Standing at the sink washing dishes
In the midst of random thoughts
About how things are and about how things should be

I am struck
It’s clear in an instant
And I know that it’s right

These dishes aren’t finished
But
I make my way to the keyboard and screen

The words appear like violas in spring
Yes, there’s adjustment, revision, and decisions about commas
But it’s easy

And look: it’s already done
What is it?
What have I made?

The lines mean even more than I meant them to mean
I see what I see, but did I write this or not?
Who is the writer and who is the typist?

Those who want to do good and say what is true
Will find themselves in the paradox
Of being true to themselves while speaking on behalf of somebody else

The writer becomes the lawyer
For the Client who pays not in dollars and cents
But in wisdom and sense

Sometimes he even sends you a rhyme
(You find it when you’re doing the last edits)
Sublime