This is no Poem, is no Painting

This new day another fragment,
this unfinished work
never to be seen by distant editors
or dealers in foreign galleries,
shapes unformed on a palette--
a dab of impossible blue here,
an irregular verb-ending there,
added in afterthought;
gallant flourishes hinting
subtly toward a lost future;
ghosts from dreams spin
conjugations of colour-endings
and echoes of smells and
tastes from childhood,
language music melting on the tongue;
paradoxes from eight of the Seven Seas;
we wonder why we conjure these things
forth from the blank surfaces
from where they came,
knowing that some things must remain
mysteries if we are to go on living;
not asking why because answers
are not needed for the marvels
to pass on to others behind us;
we do it in the luxury of our solitude,
we do it for joy
because we can.