Creation By Jennifer S. Whitcombe-Jones
By Jennifer S. Whitcombe-Jones
Creation
January 8, 2009
This word, a shell, a vessel;
Like me, its essence is carried within its structure.
The mass of its connotations encumbers the levity of its core.
Defining defies, alters,
How? What? Why?
Words cannot explain;
They belittle, condescend, patronize, categorize, murder.
The weight of stagnation, the decay of inertia;
Smother and suffocate, enveloping opaque and solid.
Creative embers require oxygen to combust, to flame, to burn.
Incineration, chemical reaction that changes dead wood;
Releasing the soul through the licking tongues of azure, ochre and amber.
Rising triumphant loosed from the prison; no words to bind or constrict;
Only heady freedom on the up drafts and currents spiraling and ascending
To the heavens. Relinquishing the material for the ephemeral;
Giving over the separate for the sacred, retrieving the source.
Open and empty, ready to be filled again.
This is creation!

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