note to self
“This that we speak of can never be found by seeking, yet only seekers find it.”—Al Bastami, born 804 CE

it haunted
lived inside my chest—
for two years I
leaned into it
reckoned with
the felt meaning
I knew it spoke truth
but couldn’t tell you why
a patient excavation,
I breathed it
but not with thought
lobbed it into
the big field
light splintered
the kernel inside
it opened
tight bud to flower
released its perfume,
the aching aroma of love

2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—they may never turn into anything more or they might flower.

I welcome comments and discussion!

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