I never know
quite what they'll do,
these words that jump alive:
march straight like soldiers,
two by two,
or run away and dive,
or quietly wait for me,
to usher them to their marked seat,
the place where they should be.
Sometimes they rustle in their skirts,
showing off their finery
they curtsy, and,
with heads demure,
look shyly up at me.
And should I give the nod, their eyes
are filled with ecstasy
and toss their heads
and float in harmony.
And as I join with them, I find
they've led me back to
the One who pulls their strings,
to show me something new.
For you the one who spoke the word,
that brought all things to be,
still now you speak
and move our hearts,
and show us how to see
and how to share the truth you give,
to shape and chisel fine,
that little marks of black on white
might be a breath divine.
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