exorcisms through the hands of a poet

a poet’s hands are stiff

from centuries of use

but still they are young

because they do not know time.

they grow flowers

and twist fire

with the tenderness

and sage wisdom of a mother

all while making it up as they go

because the thread of ages past

is of a brand new cloth each time.

Photo by Andreas Dress on Unsplash

the exorcisms happen at night,

as we have deep love affairs

with darkness and solitude.

we tremble and scream,

dancing and laughing,

until one by one by one by one

the oceans have all dried

and returned to gray clouds

hanging above the early morning

like a canopy cloak, exclusive.

Thank you for reading this poem.

…BRD…