We must live closer to the dead. Why should anyone fear them? Silence is the trophy of the peaceful. Bursting open are Heaven’s walls. The contented, the contentious, the wretched among us, it is done for you, you whose bones are no longer even grey. I stand not on soil but on decomposed sighs turned sturdy root.
Mother, babe, architect, Mayor. How can death be proud? Pride is for those still moving and aching and naming. It is ours, with our machinations and grasping love, burdened with dis-eased desire for living and remembering.
And for what? Shrubs here are searingly red and gold, and the pond’s surface provocatively placid — November’s witnesses to planetary jitteriness. Physics is against us but death, we are its glad valentine, full of grace.
Grace Seol
November 2013
Mother, babe, architect, Mayor. How can death be proud? Pride is for those still moving and aching and naming. It is ours, with our machinations and grasping love, burdened with dis-eased desire for living and remembering.
And for what? Shrubs here are searingly red and gold, and the pond’s surface provocatively placid — November’s witnesses to planetary jitteriness. Physics is against us but death, we are its glad valentine, full of grace.
Grace Seol
November 2013
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