A selection from In the Hands of the Immortal Weaver: Poems of Sacredness and Belonging

 

At night
the soul peeks out
from under the hood of this body.

Slinging ink about,
desperate to leave a message for the one
with heavy eyes and shaking bones,
telling them to take heart.

The song of the idealist
still reverberates through
the chords of this brittle being.

Push back the busy-ness,
turn the ears inward
and pick back up the thread.

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