by Becky Harblin
Steps away from mud,
always it is close,
we have never traveled far
from our birthing ooze.
As bees, and bats, and comets crash
into the seen and unseen wires,
we wrestle with the tombs
of words and deeds,
and a few of us reach out
amongst the weeds and rubble
into the havoc of the everyday,
looking for the everyman
from China to Baghdad.
But mostly we cough,
and spit, and sit
in our castles carved
from other’s bones.
Becky Harblin is a sculptor who works in concrete and soapstone and also writes daily haiku and senryu. Each morning starts with these meditative 'in-the-moment' poems. Becky lives on a farm with sheep in upstate New York. After years of working in Manhattan she moved to the more pastoral setting and found new inspirations and new challenges. Her poetry has been published on New Verse News, and North Country Literary Journal. You may also view her poems at her Web site.
