I need to touch my own lips
to feel the courage of speech.
Somewhere in a cave, a stream sparkles
with reflected torchlight.
These smooth, woman-hands
Wrap quiet across my lips.
An old ritual in an older cave,
The smoothness of mud on skin,
the perfection of these women's faces
in this evening of creative blueness.
The songs say, 'Do not speak anymore.
In the silence you'll find voices
to sing your dance.'
Inside the egg
a bird speaks.
There is ginger growing wild
and bushes bearing stars
of anise. These green,
scented dreams are near to me now
but between the leaves
breezes murmer, 'She will be
This rock is not a song and I will need to touch my own lips to feel the egg within, to touch the courage between my hips. to sing large thoughts that reach beyond rock. A kind of truth sung only by birds.