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Ruth Daigon

( Corte Madera, California )



from BFR, Winter 2001

_________________________




In My Body of Skin


When I was a nightingale I sang
When I was a serpent I swallowed
my voice  spume blown from a wave
a sound too thin for earthworms

With memories older than Prometheus
I remember the time when time was birthed
the sky appeared
sudden light  wind and water
where blind valves closed
on a single grain of sand

In my body of skin  of moss  of clover
I touch fingers with fingers
lips with lips
the exposed tip of the heart

Seed work   sun work   earth work
If pansies are for thoughts
I pick them early in the morning
so they last

Lake-summer days I climb the hill
drink the sky and pose like Millet's peasant
listening to an invisible lark

With a pocketful of seeds I sit
peeling an orange under a static sun
attentive to the sound of pine cones clicking open

The child sleeps in my shadow
and walks beside me
following from birth
moving as I move
We cling together like small animals

The well is dry   the cup empty
and gravity's a long way down



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