Ode to the caesura.
It brings our thoughts to a stop.
It laps at our minds like a sop.
And halts coloratura.
How glad the many millions
of notions are prevented
from finding full expression
in the boundless words of the world,
for then, once spilled on paper,
how might we ever gather them up again;
how might the bottle be re-plugged;
how might the heart be re-assembled,
if fancy-free reigned evermore…?
So, hurray for the period,
our friend, our lifesaver, our
paramour saving us from the
worst excesses of our best selves.
Thus hail the caesurae.
You allow the needed rest.
You trump all efforts with the very best.
And cut through the heart of the imperfect ‘I’.