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Friday, November 30, 2007
A WOMAN REMEMBERS HIROSHIMA
It was a nice day. Clean and sunny.
I was 13, in the kitchen making tea for my father.
The sun brightened the room. I could see things
so plainly. My father was in the garden painting,
and as I took him his tea, I noticed the iris,
thin and purple, on the easel in front of him,
and in the garden, leaning. We heard teh airplane
at the same time. My father said it was pretty,
so white, a flash in the sun. I winced looking.
And then my father was gone, and the garden also,
and then there was nothing but light and pain.
I thought if I die, who will know me, so I, reaching,
wrote my name on my arm with my father's brush.
Later in the hospital my uncle looked at me,
and did not know me. My face was not the face
of my father's child, but he took me home
because he saw my name, he took me home.

This is a poem by Maureen Morehead from her book, "A Sense of Time Left" (Larkspur Press). My poetry sensei, David Harrity, shared it with me this week.

Seems like a good one to close out Kingdomtide-- full of the potency of the curse and yet the mustard seed of hope lives. What does the poem evoke in you?

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posted by John David Walt | at 11/30/2007 08:07:00 AM

 

1 Comments:

Blogger eli said...

isaiah 49:8 and following

10:19 PM EST  

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