Sunday, May 3, 2009

To Still the Hand of the Muse

Her hands are a metaphor
for a dance that's full of grace
with fingers that trace her thoughts
as if they are connected to the center
of one true thing
that flows in limitless strings
of inspiration

To pause
leaves negative space
and brings to art its depth
for these words are art
with pure and practiced vision
of song that builds and blossoms thus
into waterfalls
that deserts dream of

Where does the cicada sleep

Beneath leaves twisted in some crinkled
golden hue or clutching twig
as time hums lullabies

Winter is storming behind her eyes
and a cold rock is calling for circumference
for her reign will give to glistening basalt
the depth of dreams
and the lines of time in trenches
where centuries are marked
striations of groaning war
passion and lusting for knowledge
will listen

As graceful as the silken slither
of time itself
this thought stills her hand in wonder.

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