Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

March 28, 2011

Dear Grandmother

for Rhoda

I'm sorry, we thought you were gone
and pain-blind stole from your house
the coffee cup you measure sugar with
a lozenge tin of paper clips
your trowel, a cut handful
of thread left beside the silent
singer, and two more coffee cups
with which you rose full
and thanked the sun each day.
A stone from your garden,
a line from beside each eye.
We thought you were gone and
tried to take you away in things that
you swarmed from suddenly free
as a kicked hive of bees, as vastly
alive as you ever will be.

Posted by Delire at March 28, 2011 12:06 PM
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