HE SHAPES WOOD AND SMOOTHES ITS ROUGH-HEWN
EDGE WITH HIS HANDS. ONE ASKS, "HOW DOES HE WORK?"

HIS HANDS BLEED WHEN LANCED BY A STRAY SLIVER.
ONE SAYS, "HE IS THE SON OF A WHORE."

HE KNOTS HEMP AND THINKS OF A BEAUTIFUL BRAID
THAT THE TOWER PEOPLE WORE. ONE WONDERED
IF IT WAS TOO LATE.
***
The Message Never Materialized
…when white rock pathways outlined the image of a giant dove holding an olive branch, and wound gracefully around electric waterfalls spilling into cloudy carp pounds. The air stood thick with the scent of star jasmine, and the wooden clatter of a miniature windmill pleasantly disrupted the calm. Some of them shook their heads at the pretentiousness, a few snuck pond water into tiny vessels, slipping them into expensive handbags, others stared and thought of the events that led them here. They think of their beliefs that the universe is sad, and that everything in it, animate or inanimate, the wild creatures, the stones, the stars, is enveloped in this great sadness, pervaded by it. It is without end or reason. The most beautiful things in it, they think, a flower or a song, as well as the most compelling, a desire or a thought, are pointless. And they know that the only rest from their anxiety-for they have been trembling since infancy-lies in the acknowledging and absorbing of this sadness…

© Michael O'Donnell
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