| I don’t know the Latin names of flowers. I know that there are cities wherein stars Will labor to appear in bursts of as Or under, will command the color green To work with from or of or in in staves And paragraphs, will demarcate the limits Of the sky. I recognize the colors Of acacia from paintings and poems. I know a high wind carries rhyme across The ocean. That smoke, it coaxes signals From the fire. What words you speak I too Have spoken of: of of, the turning back, The opening beyond and up above us, The movement forward and the reasoning Behind. I know that the horizon falls out Of perspective, that toward music the sea Will harken back and find in language No beauty save impermanence, a minor awe. Copyright © 2016 Sara Nicholson. Used with permission of the author. |
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