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Wednesday, March 12, 2014



Written in the Alps, 1973, Grenoble, France

by Susan Fox

He comes with leaves,
drops brown and crackling
onto pavement,
shrieks cold and sharp 
through the city; 
He rises and dies. 

Have you heard the
rustling from the mountains?
Can you see His
autumn red slashed across the hills?
Rain sweet and fresh, He tastes of morning.

“Come,” He said; I went.
I wrapped myself in the hills.

But a city wind blows there
   the whistling from the gutter;
I heard the infant cry
    louder, LOUDER than leaves.

Once we found the mountains shaken
with expectant birth of my Beloved;
but all the Kings and Diplomats
cannot stop the slow erosion of "I believe!"
nor the bold rivers of hope. Arise!  

Clouds settled on a hill called Skull.
I climbed that hill and sat in fog,
arms around the middle tree;
For three days all life had gone –
the wind blows hollow on a hill for weeds.

The blood on the grey stone church walls
beckoned me down to human places.
Now, I bleed freely, too,
and listen to leaves, the cry of children.

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