Some wounds weep precious through the generations.

They glaze and harden, heal themselves into history.


What was mere sap matures like blood into air to darken

and burnish.  Sometimes the grim Baltic rolls the scars


to shape those jewels women love to wear; especially

treasured where they hold a thing that was living once,


something with quick, venated wings which happened

by and thought the wound looked beautiful and sweet


and that, like other wounds, it should be acknowledged

somehow and,  if only for a moment, touched.


John Glenday


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