. . . . Kolapot . . . .

I chisel away
at those things
that keep me captive
at the stone walls - of my everyday
oppression of the mind
that keeps me from seeing - you
as you really are - inside and out
I carve the wood
and the substance - she calls out to me
begging me to release it's beauty
like a beautiful exotic bird - held captive by a cruel cage
like your voice - reaching through the wire bars
to touch the depths of me - the fragile pieces - that stir my soul
I sculpt my every-days
mold the clay of my life
into the shapes - that maintain my truth
my simplicity of existence
and with my hands - my eyes - my hammer
I wield the fire - I "kolapot" - as they say In Iceland - stir & "poke the coal"
to bring out the siren song - from the steel & iron ore under my control
and it is there - in that moment when my dance - brings out what needs to be set free . . .
in the magic of that release - in that beauty of the act of letting go
when I am liberated - like the material that I work - it is only then
. . . . that I find you . . . .