but some such science
breaks the diurnal flower’s
when the morning sun
crests the horizon
of the hoarded poem
of letter language
Here is my life
unfurled. I cling to my words’
Response to Mary Oliver’s “Flare” from The Leaf and the Cloud: A Poem
(Da Capo Press, 2000)
The poem is not the world.
It isn’t even the first page of the world.
But the poem wants to flower, like a flower.
It knows that much.
It wants to open itself,
like the door of a little temple,
so that you might step inside and be cooled and refreshed,
and less yourself than part of everything.