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Poet's Page |
Mother of
alphabets you call me from the underskin of sleep beyond the dream of dust and drought of spring floods and rings of fire. You store in the heart's hollow a perfect memory never-to-be-completed. Your soft-skinned inner arms begin the story of my life. You teach me how to enter the day how to be quiet marooned in a tongue of shade where there's no sound as startling as silence. I know what I know: how the seasons insist and encourage, how dark eyes of water glitter through grass in the spring how the heart tugs at the end of September when even the mildest breeze floatleaves down how December's crust leads me back to frozen footsteps and idling light. Snake dancing before the blaze I'm blanketed by winds protected by cave shadows but if I step out of the circle the earth worm will find me Better the cactus and its thorny geometrics than the night-blooming orchid. Better a damaged day of almost spring expanding without limits than a safe haven austere and silent. There is no such thing as no such thing and I am oracle and secret like a lone feather on the breath of a wind or the spider that spins a retreat but no web, or a moment of pure waiting. (To copy or translate this poem, please contact Ruth Daigon) TRANSLATOR and ILLUSTRATOR WANTED FOR THIS PAGE
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