Voci

The perfect lamps

of syllabic light

giving life to stone

and sinew to ashen bone

they are the tender call of vecchio stile

grabbed by the ear

across time and time and time.

They are the voices of rose and needle

they are all the colors of vowels

and all the moments of beauty

carved from the passes of the Abruzzi.

They are my voci

my blood sounds

our cantata.

Grace

I was walking along, looking

And I found a twig shaped like a man.

I picked it up, but didn’t name it.

I carried it all day, as though it had a secret to tell

And I was the lucky ear.

As we walked, I knew that this Human one, this stick of elements

Bore many many blows. It came to me that we shared everything

Seen and unseen.

It came to me that this stick of brokenness died so that I may live with it for this day.

This stick taught me that looking is different that seeing and loving is different than all else.