• In a world of separation, art connects

TODAY

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BLOSSOM

What is a wound but a flower

dying on its descent to the earth,

bag of scent filled with war, forest,

torches, some trouble that befell

now over and done. A wound is a fire

sinking into itself. The tinder serves

only so long, the log holds on

and still it gives up, collapses

into its bed of ashes and sand. I burned

my hand cooking over a low flame,

that flame now alive under my skin,

the smell not unpleasant, the wound

beautiful as a full-blown peony.

Say goodbye to disaster. Shake hands

with the unknown, what becomes

of us once we’ve been torn apart
and returned to our future, naked
and small, sewn back together

scar by scar.

 

(Dorianne Laux, 1952) 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


What is a wound but a flower


dying on its descent to the earth,


bag of scent filled with war, forest,


torches, some trouble that befell


now over and done. A wound is a fire


sinking into itself. The tinder serves


only so long, the log holds on


and still it gives up, collapses


into its bed of ashes and sand. I burned


my hand cooking over a low flame,


that flame now alive under my skin,


the smell not unpleasant, the wound


beautiful as a full-blown peony.


Say goodbye to disaster. Shake hands


with the unknown, what becomes


of us once we’ve been torn apart


and returned to our future, naked


and small, sewn back together


scar by scar.

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                      

Link to previous site

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The last update: December 2009.

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