"Holes"
One day in a desert two restless hands
imagined that holes, with their indolent
ways, lacked only an outline to evolve
into use.
So the hands combed camels, culled
branches from brush, followed visionary
butterflies to sacred flowers, and wove
until fishing nets entangled the sand.
One night in the mountains an anxious eye
discovered that caves had no preference
for darkness, glowing with every strike
of flint.
So the eye hunted berries, picked
leaves, gathered roots, made a point to collect
every color on the cliff, and painted
histories to interpret the light.
Somewhere on the moors, in a moss-covered
dungeon, a frustrated weeping began
to vibrate, sucked courage from bitterness
and sang the first song.
And when minds had grown
agile with agony’s wit, a poet
among them cried out in his sleep, cried out
lonely metaphors and words for wonder.
The weaver and the painter, the bluesman
and the dreamer, knew what intelligent
designers know: creation is divine,
but creating is human. As long as
crushed petals can separate the sun,
what is blue never chooses black or white.
As long as fiber can join with fiber,
as long as twelve tones can capture a soul,
as long as sad words can pull a jewel
from hollow stone, the process will go on.
Only gods are product-oriented,
who rest after seven days of knitting
us together, then tug at their work as
the moon tugs the sea, and watch
with a gleam as we unravel like waves.
© 2007 Laura Polley
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