by David Whyfe

If only our own faces
Would allow the invisible carver’s hand
To bring the deep grain of love to the surface.

If only we knew
As the carver knew, how the flaw
In the wood led his searching chisel to the very core,

We would smile too
And not need faces immobilized
By fear and the weight of things undone.

When we fight with our failing
We ignore the entrance to the shrine itself
And wrestle with the guardian, fierce figure on the side of good

And as we fight
Our eyes are hooded in grief
And our mouths are dry with pain.

If only we could give ourselves
To the blows of the carvers hands,
The lines in our faces would be trace lines of rivers

Feeding the sea
Where voices meet, praising the features
Of the mountain and the cloud and the sky

Our faces would fall away
Until we, growing younger toward death
Everyday. Would gather all our flaws in celebration

To merge with them perfectly,
Impossibly, wedded to our essence,
Full of silence from the carver’s hands.