Speak Again, Bright Angel
Whenever she curses
the verkakte computer,
or calls someone
a pain in the tuchas,
or tells me “you look
oysgeshpilt, geh
schlafen, geh schlafen"—
then oak-trees
start to belly-dance,
then withered roses
blush and bloom,
then Spy Pond's water
turns to champagne,
then birds of the air
and fish of the sea,
whatsoever walketh
or swimmeth or flieth,
fin and feather and flesh,
all exult and sing hosanna,
hosanna in the highest—
and the voice of the turtle
awakes once more in a
land famished for grace.
Poetry by Uncle Meridian

Read 103 times
Written on 2021-12-28 at 10:12




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