Untitled
after several un-named metal artworks by Elizabeth Yanish Shwayder
You heat the bronze and gift it to us—
hard earth transformed, the inflexible
now fluid. But you do not name it.
Where it flows,
You do not say waves
or the dance of hands.
Where it rests, you do not say boat
carried or bowl cupped
or what lies cradled within.
No longer raw ore, unformed and untamed—
this is vision, effort, finished creation. But still
you do not prepare us, pre-form our perception.
Where it flies,
You do not specify the wing
of dragonfly or heron.
Where it flutters, you do not describe wind.
You do not pinpoint the leaf.
You do not call the cloud by name.
You give us riddles, show us mysteries—
matter as solid, then liquid, then pure energy
in motion. Infinite angels, atoms, art.
Where it burns,
You are the world on fire.
You are the flame itself.
Where it shines, you are the sun rising.
You are the blinking eyes,
opening into sudden light.
published in The Nature of the Mother by Amy Wray Irish, Turkey Buzzard Press, 2019
