Jean LeBlanc
into the folds of the purple iris which, at dawn,
becomes the hub for spider silk, filament after
filament, along one of which if you look closely
enough you can almost see the self making
its nimble way, laughing in the breeze
as the self is wont to do, the laughing self,
the nimble, laughing self, young again,
the spring flowers unstoppable now,
the self smaller than the yellow center
of a forget-me-not, and wasn’t there a stream
here, it can’t be dry already, so early in the year,
it is spring and we are nimble and laughing,
and we have these silken threads to guide us,
and everyone we have ever loved is here
in this garden, waving, calling the self by name.
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