Friday, October 18, 2013


Joy is a little bell, a cup turned over,
in a gravel pit.  It sits in the shade of a rock
at five in the afternoon.

To a front end loader it is foreign.
Mice would not be caught dead here.
The bus does not come by.

No-one would think of looking here or find it
if they did. It must be stumbled on, a few inches
from a stray hiker’s boot.

Lifted the brass bead dances even though it’s chained.
This bell fits in the palm of a hand or hangs from a shoelace
but here the bead’s laughter
will echo against scorched stones
like a waterfall.

(published in Grain, Volume 31, No. 2, Fall 2003)

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