by Barbara Rowe
In the beginning the Word...
roared into the turbulence
forming helixes and algorithms,
water, stone and life.
And here I am with my little
box of phrases,
my limited collection of syllables and sounds
turning over my tongue like small silver fish.
I am insignificant.
All around me the fall
winds shout in great gusts, shaking
the life out of the trees,
flinging raindrops in every direction.
Along the rugged rim of the ocean
waves shatter like glass against the cliffs.
Yet this Word chose
blistered feet and a dry tongue, the sharp
ring of iron on nail, the agony of entering the void
to whisper sonnets into our parched ears.
to the fluted throats of the meadowlarks,
to the crickets as they stroke their strings,
to the tympani pulsating within your breast.