I am looking for the little cathedral
window Neruda found in a slice of lemon,
for the cascade of rain that rice
grains make inside a hollow reed;
I am searching in the wild rose bushes
for the tiny hearts of deepest red
the birds return to again and again;
for the five-pointed star exploding
seeds in the apple’s creamy interior. Warm-
wet or windy: but I want to remember
the day’s pallor is merely one scene
in the stack of cards dealt by that
unseen fist: deceptive green, curled leaf
caught too in the first blush of death.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.