Apr 162012
 

Your heart’s composed of grey mourning doves
Cooing in circles under the dogwood tree.
Come, my nunnish sis. Come, break open to love,
Alight upon the budded branch you cannot yet see.
Let light interpenetrate you like honied waters
Or as when lime and garden dirt are mixed;
Let corn stand golden in the blackest rut;
Let seed and need be one; let the roaring sun be fixed.
If there’s something in the roadway, pick it up.
Let your pockets hang fat as a puppy belly;
Love itself, and love alone, fills fullness up.
–Is that a dime glinting in the gully?
In my heart, too, a bird is circling, dear,
Its wings fanned wide for loving–or despair.

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