This Line Drawn
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We pick up a piece of charred willow,
wrap our fingered sense
around it, its body soft as silk,
and draw from the arch
of a bison’s back
across a curve of wall
in the amber flare of tallow light.
In this amber flare of tallow light
is our line too
in this chambered hour
of now
drawn deep into the heart
of something else
that has always been
wrap our fingered sense
around it, its body soft as silk,
and draw from the arch
of a bison’s back
across a curve of wall
in the amber flare of tallow light.
In this amber flare of tallow light
is our line too
in this chambered hour
of now
drawn deep into the heart
of something else
that has always been
following all the dead
into the night,
behind the eyes
in this mind’s eye
in the light of this
dreambodyself
this line
blown perhaps with ash
by breath through reed
where no light comes at last
but into the dream that opens
like a flower of night
reaching, reaching,
again and again.
into the night,
behind the eyes
in this mind’s eye
in the light of this
dreambodyself
this line
blown perhaps with ash
by breath through reed
where no light comes at last
but into the dream that opens
like a flower of night
reaching, reaching,
again and again.
We draw, and are drawn into
the wild body
the animal body
the dream body
the vegetative body
nature’s body
rooted in heaven’s earth,
heaven’s earth
rooted in nature’s body,
the wild flame
of
the animal dance
in
the dream song’s breath
over
the rhizome’s circling
through
the greening flow
all
under the great tree.
© Laurence Holden 2013
