Something from Nothing

Turning the layers, looking for clues
In the archives, for repeated words

Rolled between fingers and thumbs
like worry beads, like phrases

From dead languages recited until
They become a kind of secret prayer,

Then lo and behold I find these lines
From the sweet singer’s lips to mine —

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun

— And I wonder at how we send,
Lips to ears to lips to ears again

And on and on, these ancient words,
Invocations of living and loving.

 

* in italics, from “Digging” by Seamus Heaney

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Published by

Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner

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