Friday, June 11, 2010

the wild iris


.
.
At the end of my suffering 
there was a door.
Hear me out: that which you call death 
I remember.
Overhead, noises, branches of the pine shifting. 
Then nothing. The weak sun 
flickered over the dry surface.
It is terrible to survive 
as consciousness 
buried in the dark earth. 
.
Then it was over: that which you fear, being 
a soul and unable 
 to speak, ending abruptly, the stiff earth 
bending a little. And what I took to be 
birds darting in low shrubs. 
.
You who do not remember 
passage from the other world 
I tell you I could speak again: whatever 
returns 
from oblivion returns to find a voice: 
.
from the center of my life came 
a great fountain, deep blue 
shadows on azure sea water.
.
~ Louise Glück
.

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