Living the Dream

If you choose, child, your voice can come
directly from the whitened birch
standing guard against the infringement
on familiar territory,

for example, you take little room
with your talking leaves,
humming prayers high above the shadows
of the rattling cones.

If you choose, child, you can be shushing grass
brave men fall upon to cast a statement
in your caress, to hold a hammered heart
until the time for dust to dust

for example, you can be the mark of peace
on the battlefields as you turn inside out
to push red flowers from tendered earth.

If you choose, child, you can be rain,
striking the dry tongue of  minions
waiting, open-mouthed to catch a drop
of your wisdom to hold them for a dry spell

for example, you can wrestle words from writings
and go out onto the earth to scatter
bits of torn testaments to take hold
in hardened hearts so them can be softened.

If you choose, child, you can be the wind
sighing through the branches
and measuring the bluff, carving care
in furrowed browed of stone

for example, it is not the monuments
but the matter of all you touch
and in the manner in which you reach them
that turns them into prophets.

If you choose, child, your discourse
like lamp to light post, what halos
are there reflect the skylights
and something further and higher in the Universe

for example, the shadow speaks to the abyss
green speaks to the white bark
your voice, ringing through the cacophony
is small enough to whisper in any ear.

Tags: Poems, Skin Talk //