t h e   b o o k   o f   s t r a w,
t h e   b o o k   a f l a m e

:  k e l l e y   w h i t e

The light in the meeting house challenges
eyes. Plain walls, yet each window frames
a picture: a single branch, a brick wall.
The living silence separates and gathers:
sirens, traffic thrum, radiator hiss, even wind
speaks above the human city noise. Narrow stairs
climb to locked doors. Someone weeps.
From the street a muezzin calls pain. This bench
was once a single tree now carved to the smoothness
of a horse chestnut. Remember that round
perfect sculpture, that nut spun cool in your palm --
if cut, would you find inside, waiting, prepared,
an infinity of rooms calling entrance
to the place before birth? Give it this flame,
your breath, your light.

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