Janice D. Soderling

Duende

 

(en homenaje a Federico García Lorca)

The pungent thyme distends in ponderous bloom.
Each floret a fierce mirror to his death.
The purple reek of blood floods August's austere room.

A green-grained shape unfolds out of its sheath;
the beat of tambourines, a bullet truth,
and roots wind slowly round a darkling myth.

Soft as words, the red-winged fingers thrum.
Soft, the final petal slips its grasp and falls,
but killing its own death, does not succumb.
It lives to rise each spring beside the killing walls.