Holy Hand Grenades

Realize that

Words

Are empty cocoons-

Bent blades of grass;

Art

Is skin shed

And crisping on a rock-

Concentric circles

On the face of a pond-

An empty cicada shell

Clinging to a tree-

Nothing more.

Go beyond –

There you will find

Words can become vehicles of the divine-

And art

Their holy hand grenades.

                        --unAsleep