On the Wings of a Shadowed Dove

by A.J. Huffman

I cut through mountains made of paper,
lined and unlined.  Neither can hold
my rage.  I am rock,
resistant to your wind.  I hold blue
flame, symbol of persistence, continuance,
beacon of the broken.  I gather
the pieces that remain around me
like a fort.  They agree to become
kindling for the cause.  I reduce them
to ash, spread them as spackle to fill cracks
in the vision I hold of tomorrow.