PROSE XVIII

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[𝐏𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓; 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐞𝐫.]

She's the wild pansy of her own garden,

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She's the wild pansy of her own garden,


she seed shot out at the back end of a blue jay. When, heedless, she flew over the meadow.
She had swallowed me in my homeland when she spied me lying easy under the sun—briefly; I called her "Mother."

Before I passed through her gullet like a ghost; in a blink of God's eye I became an orphan.
I trembled and I fell alone in the dirt; that first night was a long night, early May and quite chilly,
and I remember rain filled my furrow.

I called out for mercy — only a wolverine wandered by; I cursed my luck, I cursed the happenstance of this world, I smelled his hot stink, but he nosed me deep into the mud — this was the gift of obscurity.

I germinated, hidden from the giants of earth, the jostling stalks; various, boisterous bloomers, and this was my salvation.After seven days and nights I pushed through — yes. 

Here I am, kissable: your tiny, purple profusion.

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