Her body is not so white as
anemone petals nor so smooth—nor
so remote a thing. It is a field
of the wild carrot taking
the field by force; the grass
does not raise above it.
Here is no question of whiteness,
white as can be, with a purple mole
at the center of each flower.

Each flower is a hand’s span
of her whiteness.  Wherever
his hand has lain there is
a tiny purple blemish.  Each part
is a blossom under his touch
to which the fibres of her being
stem one by one, each to its end,
until the whole field is a
white desire, empty, a single stem,
a cluster, flower by flower,
a pious wish to whiteness gone over —
or nothing.
~William Carlos Williams — “Queen Anne’s Lace” (1919)

We all arise from a single stem, branching off in countless directions, a thousand million hues and shapes and types.

We reflect the sun’s light and the Light of the Son.

There can be no question of whiteness nor a pious wish for purity – we are all purple-blemished right at the heart.

We bleed together, my friends, as He did for us.

We bleed together.