by Michele Madigan Somerville
Thrown-off linens of a shroud lie in a heap in a crevice of shadow unguent, still, like a dead lily, white, which a voice in the light wakes urging it upward and plumbing the depths its roots clutch, evicting its flesh from its tight shell, prying open the bud like the heavy lid of a coffin or seedcase split by the new strength of its own fruit, fueled by desire to pay homage to sun opening like a heavy lid by dint of grace. It is a thing divided, as day is from night. Once blind, once thirsting for light, the new bloom, submissive and fierce, undergoes a cataclysm; it changes everything. This following stream of steely sorrow that washed across slate light amid clouds torn open and fallen blood. A soft calm came after—a flourishing confidence ensued, leaving the new flower resplendent, arching and splayed, its mettle moist and refulgent, its reach older than time and as endless, its green bindings cast off like a useless shroud, its petals generous and outward as it opens itself to the light it is quenched by. A voice in the light awakens— rouses the necrotic souls of the dead, rendering death itself dead. It reaches down into the pitch, dissolving the lock death holds upon earth, sword-sharp it shoots up- ward out of the half-frozen pitch, strong enough to push a great rock away so that in the rush, the cave flushes with sudden light such that it is no longer in shadow and wounds are no longer wounds as we know them, fills with light, new fire ignites. The spirit within is without end as the world opens and yields like a ripe womb or mouth engaged in singing praise: behold this new dawn. It comes down like a hammer and lands like a kiss.
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