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