working so hard, they'll turn
petals upside-down, stretch each
until it breaks off, hits the tabletop.
I also work too hard, moving
a zig-zag route, cleaning and carving.
My body insisting on a go-dog-go
existence. If, rather, I sit and sing (or not,
maintaining silence instead),
the hole in my chest
finds its full presence,
and emptied, I finally
let God in.