Language
Our lips they chafe and chatter
at the astonishing matter
of the bumblebee, the passing bird,
we let our guard down in innocence, standing free
against the winds, to peel back nature's coat of arms
to find her heart wiggling inside her scars.
The bird is soft as silk we say, let us give it a dozen names,
and classify its lineage
to match the tree and human age,
Let us part her hair and feathers so to remind us how
we all have grown.
In naming our surroundings, in discovering and teaching
we touch like children the running the brook the ecstasy of lightning,
the orchid the flames on the Ganges and the bitter bursting
oil in lanterns,
I should go on, because the world still does, and it will do, and we are
running
to catch up, but I sail from this ledge to remind you, Imagination--
We live in teams of hearty explorers racing down suburban streets with
flags
to define our victories.
We remain cloaked in excitement, it will never leave us,
there is too much restrained in our throats, too much we have
experienced with only half a heart
to fully understand in words, what a gift this
life has given.
Copyright © Margot Weidemann | Year Posted 2015
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