Coiling the Energy
On blunt edges, speak.
Hollow out the wheel of flowing windmill slurs
and words still in their buckets
Dripping, overflowing silver
into hydraulic rivers
on their way to mirror seas.
Worn down wood to hold the world
of all you want to say
Just now, speak.
Let the power of sustenance cool the feet
of flaxen haired children in a spark of the sun
on the edge of the sugared bank
They'll hear your hum, your rhythm
and nod their heads with a thought
that the wind might pick up at any moment.
Creaking mechanics jar the mind
to better days of oils slicking the wheels
and yet you still run.
You still speak.
And the town lights up all it's peppered white
street lights with your energy.
Little pops of heat against midnight's cold breath.
Children learn to read by the strung taffy sap
pulled through wires no longer touched by
your electrified water.
And the sea pulls all it's soul together in the eagerness
to taste the warmth from your river's mouth.
All from your spinning wheel
with blunt edges
worn to perfection from gentle persuasion
and winsome words.
The whole town holds their breath,
the wheels shine liquid wood,
and you speak.
Copyright © Tatyana Carney | Year Posted 2006
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