The Root of the Lotus
The Lotus adorns my room.
The face of the Lotus, anyway,
revered for its beauty and frightening resilience.
True enough,
its petals fan out like organized artillery.
But have you ever glimpsed its root?
Lop off the head of one such flower, and
a living anchor miles deep will draw from the powerful bottom of the forgotten
to push against the hovering hand of the world.
The Lotus I nearly held to my chest tears away over headstones without a cry.
It is no garden flower, my lotus, sighing to be plucked by some eager lover’s hand.
It watches, it pierces the deep and best of all, it floats.
As shadows curl to wisps, it gathers strength where you and I cannot see:
in the residue of everything unremembered,
a swamp,
a thick fishes brew.
Limbs open to the sky, it sacrifices the best of its beauty to the world.
Even so,
this lotus knows all about what keeps it afloat--- the steady mad traffic, the circulation of motes, of terrors, of deadly little things.
Our love, too, is a Lotus.
Capable of bending towards unreachable depths,
Pressing its wanting petals between two worlds.
Baring its points as a warning to all who would mistake it as vulnerable.
The face of the Lotus, anyway,
revered for its beauty and frightening resilience.
True enough,
its petals fan out like organized artillery.
But have you ever glimpsed its root?
Lop off the head of one such flower, and
a living anchor miles deep will draw from the powerful bottom of the forgotten
to push against the hovering hand of the world.
The Lotus I nearly held to my chest tears away over headstones without a cry.
It is no garden flower, my lotus, sighing to be plucked by some eager lover’s hand.
It watches, it pierces the deep and best of all, it floats.
As shadows curl to wisps, it gathers strength where you and I cannot see:
in the residue of everything unremembered,
a swamp,
a thick fishes brew.
Limbs open to the sky, it sacrifices the best of its beauty to the world.
Even so,
this lotus knows all about what keeps it afloat--- the steady mad traffic, the circulation of motes, of terrors, of deadly little things.
Our love, too, is a Lotus.
Capable of bending towards unreachable depths,
Pressing its wanting petals between two worlds.
Baring its points as a warning to all who would mistake it as vulnerable.