To Flower

No snakes climb out of the pipes
or drop from the ceiling into our laps.
No blind men playing harmonica on the corner

break the crusts from their eyes and leap
with joy. No saint comes down the alleyway,
clad in camel-cloth and ashes, offering bread

smeared with honey and locusts. What hand
looms large, lettering this wilderness?
My prayers are stones and I’m so tired

I want to lay my head down by the water.
There’s a river of fire between the trees.
There’s the deep blue sky gashed

by a cursive of crows. And all I want
is for that heart caught in snow
and ice to flower, flower.

Luisa A. Igloria
02 16 2011

In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.

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  1. God, this is so gorgeous. (Though self-deconstructing: if this isn’t flowering, I don’t know what is :->)


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