By Anne Powell
to the place in you
where fire and silence dwell —
the place of power.
to that pool in you
of weedless water —
the place of knowing.
the moss bright path
to your Grandmother’s house —
the place of song.
to the last strawberry —
the freshness of God.
From Firesong (Aotearoa New Zealand:
Steele Roberts Ltd.), copyright 1999.
All rights reserved.
Posted with kind permission of the poet.
The only way down is down, leaving the light for the dark, allowing the surface…
Like King David, they have drunk the wine of astonishment. Mouths open wide, they lean…
Starting here, what do you want to remember? How sunlight creeps along a shining floor?…
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