glistening with hope

yesterday i listened
to beautiful words
luminous and true
today i write
these small words
words that go clunk
his needle wove silk
mine straw
his beat a perfect bell
mine a tin can
a wizard alight with purpose
an apprentice sweeping the floor

does hearing beauty help us make it?
does the sound penetrate into some interior space
locked behind secret doors
opened with keys earned through practice?
or is that beauty a gift
a random allotment
bestowed ?

today i hold no answer
i sweep my floor
ring my tin can
weave my straw
hear the rhythm
of that purposeful silken thread
and glisten with hope