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God, the GardenerThe paradiso of the bees and the hummingbirdswithered to pods, pendulous, rattling on the stems. As the translucent husks dried, the seeds became more prominent, visible even from a distance, gravid souls swelling in the sheath until they fell. Like the beeweed, we will lose everything but the framework, our skeletal purgatory radiant with ice, glittering on the frozen sword of the angel of exile, rising again and again out of the melting weight of the snows. By the time spring comes, if spring ever comes, the human heart will have been crushed so many times rising out of the weight of the falling then melting snows, or torn back and forth by such violent feelings that All that connects What is above the ground to Whatever is below will have worked free of the earth. the knob that connects the trunk of heaven to the roots below will be exposed, like the wrist joint of a human hand gripping, letting go. |
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Issue #11, September, 1999 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.