With practice - what rehearses
more faithful than blood,
the thumping engine
that hammers it forward?
With practice, the mind
abandons its home, hairless
and shaking, searching for
sleep in the unlit hills.
With practice, our bones
become seasoned and brittle
like the skin of a stone;
our worry, an underground
river that speaks to itself
about unfathomed calm,
our resilience, the shadow
of trees, the long, growing
thorn, the accomplished,
perennial bare-rooted rose .
