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Clogging

Robert Morgan 
Now we gather in a circle
turning and right and turning leftward,
stamping as though threshing barley,
stomping as if crushing wine grapes,
clatter of our toe-taps ringing,
hammering down the seconds firmly,
trampling on the vines that trip us,
nailing note and nailing heartbeat,
stamping out the fires of petty,
stepping to the river’s shiver,
cooling down the flames of anger,
summoning the ancient spirits
from the deepest wells and caverns
from the secret mystery places,
beating back the blackest shadows
raising dust of healing vapors
to the pulse of clap and laughter.
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