When was the last time you felt
the white glisten of tears before their
harvest in a vial; or the random
punctuation provided by birds swarming
electrical lines? Across the valley
that winter the cold made the almonds
shrivel, the citrus crops shrink
their promise of little suns.
In the yard next door, a girl read
a passage aloud from a book using
that way of talking: lilt at the end
of each phrase, question where there is
no question. Overhearing, I wanted
to strip the rosemary of leaves,
offer a brittle handful— as if
they could be used as pauses;
as if the faint languor of scent
that remained in each virgule
might bring a different
nuance to the horizon.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
