To Still the Hand of the Muse
The hand is a metaphor,
a dance thatís full of grace,
with fingers that trace thoughts
as if connected to the center
of one true thing
and they flow in limitless strings
leaves negative space,
brings to art its depth
and these words are art,
a pure and practiced vision,
a song that builds and blossoms thus
that deserts dream of.
Where does the cicada sleep?
Beneath leaves twisted in some crinkled
golden hue, or clutching twig
as time hums lullabies.
A winter is storming behind her eyes
and a dance begs the dancer,
only one embrace before I go.
The cold rock is waiting
calling for circumference.
This 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,
As graceful as the silken slither
of time itself,
this thought stills the hand in wonder.
[This message has been edited by Martie (edited 01-24-2000).]