I find almost everything written by Verlyn Klinkenborg enlightening. Like today's article in the NYTimes here.
I love the lilt of timbre of his writing. Especially this bit:
I have grown used to the idea that nearly everything around me in nature happens unobserved and unrecorded. A snowy winter sometimes retains a transcript, but even those are rare.
I think this is partly what art touches upon, the unobserved that becomes observed by art. Poetry takes a moment, and makes it observable. It shines the light on the hidden, on the unknown.
I am continuing to be fascinated by the in between. The jump between the moment and the word. The place that isn't anything, but is the fuel for the thing. The moment the mark is made, those wings that are the transcript. That place that is indeed ephemeral. It ceases almost immediately, but the transcript remains. Inspiration is like this. The fuel of the word. But invisible.
I love this mystery, the unknown component to the known. This juxtaposition of light and dark, learning and leaning forward to look to the newly known.
Have a great day.