11: Typeface

Typing fingers stab silence, every moment is dead,

meditation impossible;

         the hands that used to grow gardens,

pull the loom,

now age at the weaving of words over

the sound of dripping plastic; I must leave for silence, walk

the mind away; so tuned it can only be on purpose, driven to salute the maker -

like Eric Liddell's sprint: winning

a piece in the puzzle of the soul;

we marched today,

caught Fall changing clothes: chiffon trim, her nightgown off her shoulder;

ten years ago fire took the whole town,

stumps and sap - shaved wood to clear a path.

The mountain wind is so piercing - cold at its face;

not so at the back of its head;

where we worked down the spine, deer took sheer climbs in a jolt,

like god-energy up our back as we worked down the spine to something less

dead, untouched by fire, burning bushes, red, yellow, orange, pink even

everything green,

thriving

still