Letter to What Must be Borne

This entry is part 65 of 92 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Spring 2011

Dear patience, crown of flowers whose root
is the same suffering we give the name
of love— We learn that the afternoon’s
passing storms, broody with thunder and
petulant with hail, have ripped the night

heron’s nest from the trees, and flung
its young upon the cobblestones. None
have survived. Is it to make amends
that the first irises open in the dark,
confessing the wounds on their tongues?

Red and yellow, stained crests of violet—
here is how the heart’s delivered from
one injury to another. Our limbs thrash
in sleep, swimming toward the promise
of an island of repose. Come, wind

with your interchangeable songs of virtue
and endurance— Come any way through
the windows; cool these overheated rooms.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← From the Leaves of the Night NotebookRedolence →

2 Comments


  1. MO(U)RNING CHOLER

    It is not a pretty sight. I pointed to the stained cobblestones.
    What isn’t? My walking stick, constant companion now, asked.

    Carcass strewn on the pavement, Stick! A birdling’s carrion,
    one with an uningested wriggler between its broken beak,

    stared back at me between eyes half-chucked out of sockets
    that must have slid down its tiny breast when the wind came.

    Story of our lives, I said. Stick perked up: What is? What is?
    You know, just when we would have had a bellyfull of chow,

    we get cut down, even before coffee and doughnuts and love.
    That’s it, Stick! I will not take this anymore. Endurance, nil,

    Act of God, the full enchilada. It will always be uneven, Stick.
    Violence on the birdwing, that is the daily axiom. Patience?

    Love? Endure this carnage anyway you want, Stick. I quit.
    Let me just behead these dandelions, and skies be damned.

    —Albert B. Casuga
    05-26-11

    Reply

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