Now the birds speak in secret rhythms
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And the trees bark in secret sounds
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And the people rush in secret thought
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And they push the thoughts into the shape of words
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And sometimes someone among us
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Sticks her head into the
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Shiny phosphorus blue vat
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Of language
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And listens, like a skeleton
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To the pulsing of life within,
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And she tells us
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Of secret rattling angles
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To watch for and to reach into
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With strange oceans
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And deafening skies
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That can be mapped and measured
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Only by sounds
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And never by meanings
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And once we can tell where we are
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Using the nearest star
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As it relates to the ragged water (a map of voices)
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Then we can plant our feet into the good ground
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And go to the rodeo
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And answer the plum colored hawk
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And sing to the river
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In good faith
|
God presses his mouth around our head
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He breaths out
|
He breathes in
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And we are resuscitated in the goofy atmosphere of god
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Where there are highways and bowling
|
And tattooed by the sun
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A circus
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Made by the prayer of breathing and living hope
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And barbed eyes
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Where coyotes hang
|
|
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[Page 2]
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And cowboys hammer
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Posts and branches
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To keep us inside
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As much as keep someone out
|
|
And the prayer that is
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And it is answered with a breathe
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Gods lips against our own
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We breath in
|
We breath out
|
He breaths out
|
And sigh
|
Alive again
|
|
The unexpected
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Discovery
|
Of a b-side
|
Of life
|
|
(A map of voices)
|
|
A warning to others who would come this way
|
An animal who has seen things
|
A horn twisted into shapes
|
Understood by strangers
|
Recognized by demons
|
An invitation in the secret language of trees
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Sung in wild shapes
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By a child
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|
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|
Secret Language Of Trees
|
| Rickie Lee Jones |
