Chaos One imperial summer the poppy held out, curved stem bowing to earth, it’s flower persisted, its face to the sun. Lus mór– foxglove– spread over the garden, as if the whole world depended on pink tubular bells to call attention to which has greater importance. An autumn evening, a butterfly with its broken wing hovers under the bulb, dims the light, shadows move, as if a ghost had entered the room. We see the wrong always in another country, that same country looking back, the wrong in us. All this faith in an afterlife, earth rich with ancestral bones, seeds scatter, plants shed their skin, leaves tumble, spread gold, amber, red at our feet, beginnings always meeting decay. Today, blood red petals like tissue paper dissolve into the ground, already another shoot takes over, digitalis purpurea buds in the pot. Now another cycle grows out from chaos gives way to a new order, we are moving in circles, one great eternal spiral, like it or not. Attracta Fahy
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