THOUGHTS OF A POET IN THE RAIN

How like axes, spoken words are.

The sharpened cleaving edge,

Bright gleaming in the sun,

Swung in a wide and sweeping arch,

Strikes the wooden heart of silence,

Strikes deep to reveal the hidden core,

Kept safe, before, behind a wall of bark

Before the honed edge did find its fatal mark,

And striking thus sends out a ring of shock,

As if a wave of horses racing away,

Were named North, South, East, and West.

Outward, ever outward, from the fresh cut they race,

And multiply a thousand fold as they run,

At the breaking of the stillness,

At the cutting of the bark.

*****Copyright 2012 Gordon Kuhn*****