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greenstormMy bold. Say it aloud.
From Blossoms
From blossoms comes
this brown paper bag of peaches
we bought from the joy
at the bend in the road where we turned toward
signs painted Peaches.
From laden boughs, from hands,
from sweet fellowship in the bins,
comes nectar at the roadside, succulent
peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,
comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.
O, to take what we love inside,
to carry within us an orchard, to eat
not only the skin, but the shade,
not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into
the round jubilance of peach.
There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.
Li-Young Lee
This is My Heart
This is my heart. It is a good heart.
Weaves a membrane of mist and fire
When we make love in the flower world.
My heart is close enough to sing to you
In a language too clumsy, for human words.
This is my head. It is a good head.
Whirrs inside with a swarm of worries.
What is the source of the mystery?
And why can't I see it right here, right now
As real as these hands hammering
The world together.
This is my soul. It is a good soul.
It tells me, "come here forgetful one.
And we sit together.
We cook a little something to eat.
Then a sip of something sweet.
For memory. For memory.
This is my song. It is a good song.
It walked forever the border of fire and water.
Climbed ribs of desire to my lips to sing to you.
Its new wings quiver with vulnerability.
Come lie next to me.
Put your head here.
My heart is close enough to sing.
-Joy Harjo
From Blossoms
From blossoms comes
this brown paper bag of peaches
we bought from the joy
at the bend in the road where we turned toward
signs painted Peaches.
From laden boughs, from hands,
from sweet fellowship in the bins,
comes nectar at the roadside, succulent
peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,
comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.
O, to take what we love inside,
to carry within us an orchard, to eat
not only the skin, but the shade,
not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into
the round jubilance of peach.
There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.
Li-Young Lee
This is My Heart
This is my heart. It is a good heart.
Weaves a membrane of mist and fire
When we make love in the flower world.
My heart is close enough to sing to you
In a language too clumsy, for human words.
This is my head. It is a good head.
Whirrs inside with a swarm of worries.
What is the source of the mystery?
And why can't I see it right here, right now
As real as these hands hammering
The world together.
This is my soul. It is a good soul.
It tells me, "come here forgetful one.
And we sit together.
We cook a little something to eat.
Then a sip of something sweet.
For memory. For memory.
This is my song. It is a good song.
It walked forever the border of fire and water.
Climbed ribs of desire to my lips to sing to you.
Its new wings quiver with vulnerability.
Come lie next to me.
Put your head here.
My heart is close enough to sing.
-Joy Harjo
