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Opening His Greenhouse
by Kay Weeks

Your bulky exterior,
Bear-like calm
Hiding the double loss
At age fifteen—

First uncle, then father,
Saginaw greenhouse
As the receptacle of memory
All that grew, vine-like to heaven!

Tendrils of joy, weedy sorrow
Bursting through glass
Into air, your words
Of exaltation, of despair,

You said,
Enshroud me with Light
O Whirling! O Terrible Love!

Love lost, transformed
Into seeds, then planted,
Those meaty embryos
Growing slowly

Until the heart said
Tear them loose
Like a hard birth

Cries and thorns
thrown wildly
Into every barren field
And singing stream

Then settling calmly
Into your art
Held like a loose embrace,
Feeling beyond words,
Feeding our dreams.

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