white coat

There is a press and pace of words,
    ebb and flow.
        We close our eyes to see.
Hands that pass hesitant and slow
 hold scalpels poised,
    flesh like any other
          until now.

What mystic power does the mind possess?
  Clad in white, solemn, young
        and ready to learn.
 We poise our pens and scalpels
                 and seek out healing
in the still equilibria
      of death.

  There is a press
 and pace of words
           and mortal minds
     that strive to see.
We are flesh, fallible,
         like any other,
      even now.
    NsB 04-09-2001
         "white coat"