Quickening

Was the good dark soil.
Was turned
and ready to be shaped —
and long loved
the shapes
you saw in it.

But lost
in the lovely
alone,
the hands —
grown solid,
with their leafing veins,

and skin
like paper
waiting for pen —
found the melody,
felt this —
their own quickening.

So swallow up
the stones
from my throat.
Open the gate,
and let your hands
fly like birds.

Turn to it.
Winter has not done
with us yet.
But the light changes,
and it is mine
to tend this garden now.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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