Poem by Carol Weston

Photo by Bill Perrault



To Jack Powers

Your sculpture is the egg of the world
clouds flowing over the veins
of the as-yet-to-be-born New Year.

The egg is the floating matter
in our peculiar location in space
going up to 2 million miles an hour
from which we are spared
by carrying our atmosphere.

Your egg in space
rolls in eternity,
carries us,
unites us all
under the veins
of the yet-to-be-born New Year
which shall carry us
among stars and universe
to perception's edge.

We swing over dark
each fear making a light,
each comprehension;
each breath making a light

Beyond us the pulsating mass murder making a light,
and the waves of mass prayer making a light.
It is a holy vehicle God invests with an orbit.