Brought Forth

| January 01, 2009

On the edge of life, ones who sleep on hard surfaces
hang like wading birds standing in rough water.
They keep their heads cocked for a glint,
brought forth from the river, of fish, of any food at all.

 

These are the ones who have forgotten themselves
Some mothers' babies grown and left behind,
whose habits die hard,
good manners, bad tempers,
drinking spirits that steal away their breath.

 

From the white and shine of swift water,
promise, honed into silence,
hangs on the willows,
honed into blades of grass,
loaned to us by One who made the stars
hung in place the sun and moon.
It will be brought forth, and all reborn
held for admiration, gaze, hold, count toes
let this perfect hand curl around your finger.

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