For some, the miracle is written
in corpses. Can you rediscover humor,
even before anger ceases?
Flies are masters, though they will never
say so — winnowing creatures down to bone,
the finest editors the world has ever known.
Today’s prompt at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads was to choose up to 13 words from the following quote (I’ve bolded my random selections) and use them in a poem that has something to say about metaphor:
“People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continue to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humor, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in the ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.” ~ Diane Setterfield