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The Craft
The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne—Chaucer
Meaning arrives slowly,
a song from great distance,
a breeze passing over
ditch water. While it lasts,
you lean into its shiver.
You do not master a craft;
it brushes you with surprise.
And if you tender the tips of
your most hopeless longing,
your most stubborn faults,
craft will bind them into a beauty
so dense, so pure, so rare, so common,
you will find yourself cast into a spell of
amazement and gratitude so deep
you will feel forever young in its thrall.
You do not master a craft;
you are the village fool that fumbles,
falls, breaks the cask: then frees,
attends, willingly surrenders to the genie
everything you have and are:
your seed, your root, your core,
your insatiable need.
Click below for March, 2013, interview and essay with Kathleen in The Centrifugal Eye: