Creation through Aspiration: a poem by Leo Hartshorn

solitary clay corpse lies on its face
damp mud flung on an orb in space
solitude's request
from potter's fingers at rest
without quivering tongue
from gasping lung

O Holy Aspirator, take deep breath
exhale life on this creature of earth
fill this vessel with wind
come, ascend
the windy peaks of Hebron's height
bring back a blast of might

valley of clay bones on desert floor
stark white fingers poke through the dusty drawer
O Son of Humanity, what do you see?
death and misery
what silent voices echo in desert lair
from bone and hair?

'tis the laughter of motherland ground to dust
prophesy to the wind if you must
Adam's fallen children wait to dance
if perchance
that be a gust of wind over there
that caused the quiver of a hair