Because I am barren land:
And though
I can hold the pen,
I have but sand
In my hand,
For thoughts are angular
Without the yolk
Of the inner whisper.

And then
In the desert,
The sudden
Incomprehensible
Pale green shoot,
Come from nowhere,
Cracking the carapace
And shielded exterior,
Breaking ground.

And there,
Blood
To the lips
Of the stone
And all is shifted
To flows of liquid,
And the hand
Joins thoughts
And the leafs unfold,

Becoming one
In the curling letters
And the writing’s sound,
And the circular forms
Of life
Encountered
And rising
To the mind’s
Beautiful fore.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015