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Saturday, January 17, 2009

Goldenrod and Wild Asters

like a wind whispering out of some place
no one knows, rhythms dancing
within rhythms, you discovered me

like some old piece
of your own writing, or an old photograph
that wouldn't be there if it wasn't for you,

or a secret patch of dirt
that you religiously tended
into a flourishing garden,

you put fences up around its yard,
planted trees with the reddest berries
and rose hips that blaze close to the ground,

you taught me the importance
to be down on my knees,
my fingers sifting the black earth,

making those things grow which will grow,
keeping the goldenrod and wild asters
to crown the spring,

while the wind, heady and dizzy
in warm and balmy nights, shook
stalks naked in their stands,

bees suckling at breasts
of flowers, hummed rummaging
through deep thickets of pollen,

and as life's private curtains
drew up and nature supped
from furry, petalled cups,

I lay dressed up in this livery,
almost dying from bliss,
and waiting for rediscovery.

A Divan for Dying: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

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