This poem by W.B. Yeats is fastened tight in my memory. Sometimes I like to spread the words out to see them again in black and white, rather than flashes in my mind.
He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
W.B. Yeats (1865-1939)
The rush and the bustle is done and dusted. I'm looking forward to some time in the workshop this week. I'm hoping these words might weave their way into something metallic and precious.