Until we have the language
we cannot understand
how exiled from the adage
we call the promised land.
Our words are ploughshares digging
into the dormant soil
creating springtime's twigging,
creating human toil,
to recreate the wombtime
where rocked by God we slept
oblivious of tombtime,
the word we can't accept.
LRH
7.30.07
reply to GWH on his poem Writer's Country
Linda Hepner
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/why-words/
