“And the Word was made flesh.”

I wish I could make words become flesh,

become embodiments of my thoughts.

Somehow they always seem to fall short

of what I really want to say, lack heart,

everything needed to capture the moment.

Perhaps I strive for too much ornateness,

too much cleverness and catchy phrases,

not enough emotion or passion

to convey the beauty, the splendor

of a pink dogwood in May, a white-capped 

ocean wave in summer, a Kansas sunflower,

or fields of golden wheat in fall.

Poets are supposed to capture the juiciness,

the utter delight of what they perceive

so others can savor the pulp, the aroma,

the bodily fullness of their penetrating vision.

And often they do. Like Mary Oliver's 

poignant words: "it is a serious thing/

just to be alive/ on this fresh morning/

in this broken world."