I peek through the corner of my low lying days
And am hit by an idea so plain
That the glory we starve for
That the testimony of time we traverse,
Only sing to the tunes of
A warrior who
Carries the mass of civilization
On fingertips which
bends the sharpness of realism
With molded hands
Filled from the itch of hard work
And the boon of benevolence
I fantasy about the blossom the eye invites, Of fanatical fury and cherry trees,
Of falling dew drops plucked from the
flame of heaven
Of half repeated metaphors and
Of wholly denied truths.
A little blink sets in motion
the raging waterfalls waging wars against the world.
Oh, I wonder
arms dotted by the brands of burden,
And feet swollen by the race of rage.
I see dresses stitched from lost daydreams of infancy and steeled by the crutches of adulthood.
Of bones fabricated from the face of earth,
Of blood soaked from the stage of sacred solitude.
And I recognize
in the shoulders of a woman,
Who makes us
And our destiny.