a meditation on a drawing of the same name, hanging in the Figge Art Museum in Davenport, Iowa
It’s hard to tell whether
these outlines you’ve left
patterned in the snow
were meant to be fruits
or leaves—or maybe
even flowers; the thorns,
most definite, tell of blossoms
too delicate to hold
in human hands.
I would become a beetle
if it meant I could trace
your flowers to fruit—
if it meant I’d never
damage you or leave you
lonely.
I think of you, lonely
in our yellow house
freckled with ladybugs
robed in daffodils.
If I could be a bird flying
from this city to yours,
I would alight so softly
that the dew of your branches
would never know
I’d kissed them good morning.
You’re living proof
a red-breasted robin can dance
its whole life on eggshells;
can subsist on & resist
its own heart.
You’re living proof
I can love a shadow
of a shadow of a shadow of
a single moment
in a rose garden.
Now my palms wet with bird hearts
beating like beetle wings.
