Poem For Billy Collins
You are the soup and the spoon.
You are the moist, warm vapor of
tarragon rising from the bowl,
you are the wooden bowl.
You are that same vapor morphed
into the morning mist that flags across
the tops of hemlock and pine on its
journey toward an evening sky so
perfectly clouded and colored it
could be a painting. You are that sky
at dusk. You are the canvas that
caught the silhouette of a tardy
mourning dove racing home.
And I am that mourning dove lost in
reverie while foraging beneath a Mock Orange.
I am the Mock Orange. I am the perfume lifting
out of the center of its creamy, white petals—
pursed like a pouting mouth. I am the hunger.
I am the mouth that will not hesitate to open
for the offered spoon of soup.
By: Evelyn Augusto
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