12
I am in love with the color
of hydrangeas—blue on blue,
blue on purple; purple on white,
along with the scent of gardenias
just before they brown at the edges
like books left too long in the sun.
Sandpipers leave hieroglyphs on mud
flats. Silk from golden orb spiders
wrap around a body like steel.
I can profess such love for things
regarded as mostly inconsequential.
I can grieve both the rising tide
and houses collapsing in slow
motion along the coast.
How fortunate to believe in small
annotations that might still
make it possible to inhabit a different
kind of importance in the world—
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.