OPEN


OPEN

(for Alice Walker)



You are open.

The delicate tracery

of your soul

is exposed.



You live a year’s December.

The cold eyes cast

upon the patterns

of your being

are not often kind,

not always clean.



Within the heart

of the heart

of your being

is a strong castiron stove,

an eternal demon flame.

How otherwise explain

your warm survival?



Sometimes

 I watch you,

time your exquisite poise.

Then you are

Zora or Marie Laveau

or a mystery

I do not presume

to understand.



At those times

I fear you most,

because I can

love you

for what you are.




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