The Labyrinths of Letters

(for Ken Dickinson)

A constant search
for something that lies
within the words
on the page.

Something that touches
deep within him,
from many different
directions at once.

The heart, the funny bone,
the head, but always
releasing the grasp,
letting the poems sing
their own songs.

After letting go he
spreads out the words
for friends and an ever
widening whirl of worlds
spiraling out of time.

We use our words
to intimate meaning
because we can only
circumscribe the sacred
and never hold it, only
to be held by it.


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