This mangled, smutted semi-world hacked out
Of dirt . . . It is not possible for the moon
To blot this with its dove-winged blendings.
She must come now. The grass is in seed and high.
Come now. Those to be born have need
Of the bride, love being a birth, have need to see
And to touch her . . . .
Come now, pearled and pasted, bloomy-leafed,
While the domes resound with chant involving chant.
Wallace Stevens
from "Ghosts as Cocoons"
and it shouldn't be possible for you, for any of us, to find the perfect poem for this perfect photo, in its beauty and purity, and yet, and yet - how? i can only ask how, and be silent, and wonder, and tremble...
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