Power in life takes many forms:
the power of a beam of light,
the power in my father's arms,
a splendid eagle raised in flight.
Power of which I stand in awe
exists in spirals--whirling things--
a force within a spinning yaw,
Twisters hurtling through the air,
the strength of bird's nests hung in trees,
the coils of curls within your hair,
the top that's spun on bended knees.
The way an eagle mounts the storm
and locks his wings to circle high
and ride upon its spiral arm
through storm-soaked clouds to sun-filled sky.
Prayer that lifts the soul to God
as though on coils of telephone,
connected by the savior's blood
and circling to the father's throne.
Now in my hand a spiral shell
not grown from full to tapered end
but curling outward, bell to bell
intent to reach its fullest bend.
My life's spiral thus could be
a useless vortex whirling down,
a star atop the Christmas tree,
a regent with a golden crown.
Or like Archimedes' screw
giving life to dry, parched fields.
Forever watering anew,
a life that flourishes, yet yields.
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