I did not want to come here through the gray corridors of cold, to join this pious crush for pew space; my heart is too distant, still bound to a scrap of earth which twice now has frozen over the husk of my love; I’m hemmed in, flanked by strangers’ overcoats, and sure enough the first notes strike against
It wasn’t where we wanted to live but you have to put down roots to thrive. Daily we bore the shock of forbearance— our own and our neighbors’: the noise, the smell! Be fruitful! We tried. Soil of lead arsenate, cadmium. We added our detritus, peel and core: redemption. And now our mineral prison blooms in this, the year of our departure: now at last the berries fruit in blue abundance. Which goes to show our acts are not our own; what we make does not belong to us. At best we fade softly as timothy, and leave our harvest to the next people.
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