Lost Fragment of a Renaissance Poem
I have been swan-ned by a partial muse
In earliest offerings of youth’s goodbye tendencies
I sport wild flowers only in jest
To quell the dear delusive art of my faith
That people are good and that my heart
Was made to be tender, always
No matter the worldly costs
I shall not afford elegiac sonnets
Nor write at the close of spring
I speak instead from Summer’s mound
Summer’s mound of a woman’s fertility
How she celebrates her humid hands
Against the skin of the world
How she kisses poor humanity
Even when we have barely a hope
In her thoughts and smile, new urgency thrives
And the songstress rainbows stresses near
Against the weary pilgrims of our place
And garlands wild, and feasting on eyes
So alien I’d imagine them asian-elves
Belong to an ancestry of pleasing and acceptance…
Wuji Seshat 