Kirsti Blom - Norway
My Village Heart
I am the falling wind
radiates in seven directions from the street corner
where phoenicions greeks romans jews mores indians gypsies
come together daily
Their white chalked voices are my prayers
lead to God through cables of nerves in inextricable tangles
I am the bransing iron
shiver when the burning starts
The head is a star
the eyes fruits of almond
the hands naked grape vines
I write with the tip of my fingers
as aurora roses above the nearest sacred mountain
to ask forgiveness
I am a blend of green and beautiful
it crackles in old joints
my village heart shines of thirty suns.