“In the beginning was the Word…and the Word was God”:
ingrained in the ecology of the poet tree, echoing from its myriad
of rings, through its ageless roots & enduring branches.
& God, the wordsmith of wordsmiths, made the Word flesh
to dwell among us & blow riffs of tradition through us, the leaves
of forever soloing on the indigenous versaphone…
as we with an ear to the ground, search for purpose within
truth, discovering truth within beauty, carving a brand new nuance
of meaning from the beauty of our own expression…
as we with the winged thoughts of our angel eyes take flight
through another long day’s journey into night, to where
our deeds, begotten in births of cool winds blown
everywhere all at once, return as reflections
in the kaleidoscopic urn of ubiquity
breathing life eternal into our words.