Little Wooden Duck

They call it a symbol. A sacrament. They call it sacred.
 
Every night we take off our skins and hang them upon the line,
drying out the stain of day in the cool of night.
We pray for moon to shine kindly upon us, 
for the sun always glares and we are seen too easily in the daylight.
 
They call it a symbol. A sacrament. They call it sacred.
 
So I sit small upon the roof and my skin is blowing in the wind 
and in my palm I hold a little wooden duck.
This duck. My duck. I cut her. I carved her. 
Took knife to wooden block and sculpted her.  
 
They call it a symbol. A sacrament. They call it sacred.
 
There is nothing quite so unassuming as a little wooden duck.
I stopped everything that was on my list of what must be done 
and I sat on the front porch
and slowly cut and slowly cut until she emerged. 
 
They call it a symbol. A sacrament. They call it sacred.
 
Now I sit this night with muscle and flesh bare to a wind that carves me 
             and I hold her, my duck,
             but somehow she holds me. 
I stare at the duck and I am staring at God who is staring back at me, 
just a small duck in the big wide world.
 
They call it a symbol. A sacrament. They call it sacred.
 

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