Poetry and Soul
It's in the mountaintops billowing with bamboo fires,
A tiny black hand wrapped around my clumsy white finger,
A bright yellow school brimming with little-girl kisses.
It's in a soccer game,
a race,
the gift of a pencil.
It's sitting on the beach with the sand fleas
watching Orion's nightly walk on the waves.
It's in doing something uncomfortable because
that's the only way to learn truth.
It's a woman singing at breakfast--
the dawning of her voice breaking our hearts
and our tears watering the sand at her feet.
It's one love and slowin' down life
'cause yah mon, it's no problem.
The land courses with a poetry and soul that will not be
imprisoned in a poem.
And I realize the words themselves
mean nothing at all.
3/22/2006
