poetry by j matthew waters


western red cedar comes
crashing down
rife with folklore
and wisdom and superstitions
having witnessed
countless cycles of faceless moons
and meteor showers

transformations don’t happen
but they happen nonetheless
creative outcomes
contingent upon circumstances
commissioned by wealthy unknowns
or chief medical doctors

artisans speak without words
wielding gougers and adzes
and knives of all sizes
giving new life
to that which still breathes
carving out new creations
as if they are gods themselves

august two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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