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This Poem By Barbara Jordan

This Poem By Barbara Jordan

Let the form be a garden in wild wilderness,
a hyacinth language, a turning in wind
when marginal influences
disrupt the flow.
Build thought as a bee does,
one concern at a time, a hexagonal symmetry
deep in the structure;
or explore the foundation
of a derelict house, its cellarhole cracked
by bracken and trees—with daffodils blooming
alongside the door,
and off in the woods, sometimes
a forsythia. And a carrion beetle to bury,
the mouse, the skeletal memories of things,
that are gone;
or hidden, like antlers, deep in the pines
where branches are tossed,
a path to the edge of recorded time, that stops
at a place
where the language is lost.

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