This pot I’ve been stirring,
I’ve been stirring so long
that my stirring stick
has begun to bloom—
or am I the one being stirred?
This skin I’ve been wearing,
I’ve been wearing so long
is the skin of my predator—
or am I the one being worn?
What is not in blossom?
Even this body, shackled
and gaunt, even the stick
cut from the tree.
We are all wands,
instruments of some
incomprehensible,
fertile magic
I like how that title seems to be at odds with the first line, the first a thought, the second a adage. I see how the page, by the end, has the last word. I also like that turn in each of the first two stanzas.
It is actually a bit of a pun I wrote this poem about a card in the tarot the page of wands 🙂 that¹s the little inner secret of the poem. r
From: “comment-reply@wordpress.com” Reply-To: Date: Sunday, April 26, 2015 at 7:08 PM To: Rosemerry Trommer Subject: [A Hundred Falling Veils] Comment: “What the Page Said”
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Ah, I see, but the stick from the tree was wand enough for me.