The Wild Iris

April 27, 1993

At the end of my suffering

there was a door.

Hear me out: That which you call death

remember.

Overhead, noises, branches of the pine shifting.

Then nothing. The weak sun

JTC flickered over the dry surface.

It is terrible to survive

as consciousness

buried in the dark earth.

Then it was over: that which you fear, being

a soul and unable

to speak, ending abruptly, the stiff earth

bending a little. And what I took to be

birds darting in low shrubs.

You who do not remember

passage from the other world

I tell you I could speak again: whatever

returns from oblivion returns

to find a voice:

from the center of my life came

a great fountain, deep blue

shadows on azure seawater.

@2(''The Wild Iris,'' Louise Gluck, The Ecco Press)

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