I have not seen stars being born
nor heard the sound the moon makes
to cast its shadow on the trees.
And I have not found the cipher
to the message insects
transmit all through the night;
nor have I understood the shapes
of countries drawn
by flagstones in the yard,
or the aftertaste of clove
that numbs my tongue. Together,
time and rain green
the fluted sides of the bird-
bath, and water smells
like salt or tears. When I
strike a match to light
the lantern, I startle
a papery cloud of wings.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.