Confronted with my splintered soul,
I know just what to do:
I'll sand my slivers all away,
scour off the things I rue.
I think to sculpt myself of wood,
(or polish up a stone)
forgetting I've been made alive:
bought, beloved, and known.
You silly, oh my soul, you goose!
Flesh heart, you miracle!
Carpenter-King is Doctor, too--
and tender of my soul.
A quietly spectacular achievement, this poem; it merits much re-reading! Thank you for posting it, barn swallow!
ReplyDeleteThanks for your encouragement, dylan!
ReplyDelete