I’d rather be
a horn
in a great
player’s hands, or
a stout pocketknife
sitting on a woodcarver’s
bench waiting
to whittle;
I imagine there’s a master’s
breath pouring through me
with some great song, or
a master’s hand wielding me
to pull a dragon from
a block of rosewood.
Channel, not channeler;
vessel to be emptied
of what has filled me
from a source, the Source.
I am nothing here but
glad to be of service,
seeing myself
as what rests in the Hand
of the Maker and what will be
laid aside when all is done.
