Poetry
I have come forth
to set my heart
on the ground
and to make a small
signal fire,
mixing smoke
with dust and clouds.
The blue-white
flame, with the orange
aura, bright
as the blood oranges
of the south,
this
will be the burning
of my soul.
How long
does a soul endure
in a changing place?
The book of the Persian poet covered in red amber
promises riches, gold that filters through the cracks...
Sarajevo, 1995
I dream now of potatoes—
white, russet, red.
Sentinel potatoes, like Argus,
with eyes everywhere;
watching the dead underground
in the cemetery,
in the stadium,
in the streetcar turnaround.
I could swim in this sea, this sea of Black helix hair and fleecy locks, waves of caramel,honey,Blue Black,Red brown chocolate faces...
May Sarton-poet, novelist, feminist, journal keeper, and Sojourners member-died this summer at the age of 83 (see "May Sarton: Years of Praise," September-October 1995).