In a message dated 12/03/2002 7:43:38 AM Central Standard Time,
[log in to unmask] writes:

<< I agree with Arthur, Sue.  Could use a bit of trimming but there is a
lovely
 poem in this.  Go from here but don't touch the last two lines.  IMO

 Warmly,
 Barbara Ostrander



 Poetry is made from the ancient magic of music and dance;
 it is made from the inchoate longings that live unexpressed
 until we give them expression.
 It draws me toward the storyteller's fire;
 and in the night beyond the cave where the fire burns,
 where darkness is always ready to descend
 and blot out that story, that dancing fire,
 something that is as old as the stars sends forth its frail voice,
 a song in the midst of fear, in the midst of loneliness,
 a voice that wavers but goes on singing
 of what it means to be human, a small voice,
 trying to express what it means to be alive and in the light.
 Each word is an attempt to unwind the Celtic knot,
 to add my hand print to the shadowed wall. >>

Yes, Barbara.  I see what you mean.  I will work on this and see if I can get
the face of the poem to emerge from the marble (smile).  Thanks so much, Sue