the word in the stone

Just simple lines on paper,
or tiny symbols on a screen
just can't move solid stone,
it often seems to me.
Where I live
and how I think is flesh
and forest and bloody teeth.
But I can't spin a golden web
and feast on flying fish
nor inspire silver flutes
to lecture with my breath.
Nor can I paint the green-eyed forest
nor sculpt the roaring air.
But just as water finds a hole,
so my youthful roots,
fertilized by espresso,
took grip of literary echoes
of living and lost worlds.
So as moles breed beneath the ground,
as the farmer ploughs,
and the hammer pounds...
so I sow my soul in symbols,
and weave my web in words.
And as a bamboo bridge connects two peoples,
so certain words move certain stones.
So may there always be seeds for the poets
and readers for the birds.