It’s not something I’ve found
very often, or even stumbled upon,
like if I was rummaging for
a lost golf ball in the trees.
My swings don’t bring much bliss,
and I don’t mean golf swings.
We’re speaking in metaphors here.
Bliss, euphoria and the rest
of their cousins gathered under
Roget’s roof never searched for,
let alone found me, either.
But I think I discovered something
equating to that joyously mystical
eruption of transcendence when
I harrow out the right words to tell you
how we feel, no matter my mood.
And that, my friend, might be ecstasy.
Quick one written from Robert Lee Brewer’s request for an ecstasy poem. I think other writers might experience this same feeling, or maybe kid themselves as I probably do, that we actually feel such joy in the creative strip mining of our souls.