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.
Dark Matter 