The Twisting Mind

Grasp the twisting mind this once
Gently as you would a young snake
Innocent of touch
And hold it up to that Sun
That burns silent and alone
In the clear deep.

See how it wriggles out of its itching skin.
And the two of them lie there:
Snake glowingly renewed, sweet, still,
Nourishing its potency in Solar warmth;
Skin old, dead, dry,
Mere empty cast of life,
Now capable only of reminding us
Of the difference between form
And what breathes inside form

© Copyright 1995 by Richard Hodges
All Rights Reserved