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Another Covenant

every year in Spring
I wait for the blue iris
to send its spikes
over blades of the palest green
as if to penetrate heaven
I watch
for a radical redirection
as each indigo-tipped spear
unfurls one petal at a time
and weapon becomes blossom
there is no wounding of the sky
only a cup
for the wind and rain
when is an empty hand
an open hand
when each finger
of its own rhythm
is warmed to the softness
of potter's clay
a hand becomes a vessel
deep enough to harbor
what is needed
to fill a life
the space it redefines
is not a void
but a promise

- Franklin Abbott (Martal Love, 1980)

 

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