A sculptor can always use hammer and chisel, but if she can sing the right songs, the songs that speak the true names, the songs that go to the very heart of the matter with which she works, she can inspire that matter to participate intelligently in its own development and re-creation. ~Ken Carey
Each unexpected blow lands hard. I’m soft
and yielding so a brutal push right off
the cliffs of my despair just wakes me up.
Here by the lake, sipping my morning cup.
The poisoned air, the foul water, the box
of isolated safety is a pox.
I’m shivering as swallows mate, vultures
spiral. A bright orange oriole is sure
in this crisp break of May. Union is song.
My own rises. Integrity. What’s wrong
in all the world my fractal shows. I sing
so that your voice may grow, a joyful ring.