Robin Brown Poet Verse

The Physical World Around Me

I hear the susurrus of wind
combing through sycamore 
leaves,
a liquid, percussive hush
that trembles against the
windowpane.
Distant traffic hums- a
low, guttural undertone to
sparrows
arguing in bright, staccato
syllables above the
telephone wires.

I touch the luminous grain
of the wooden table,
cool and pitted, worn
smooth by years of palms
and coffee rings. 
Sunlight lays itself across 
my skin in incandescent
ribbons,
while the air carries the 
faint, powdery silk of dust in
motion.

I smell petrichor rising
from the rain- washed
pavement outside,
mingled with rosemary from
the kitchen and the
resinous breath of pine.
There's cinnamon, too- 
warm, nostalgic, curling like
amber smoke-
and the metallic tang of
ozone after thunder has
passed.

I tasted morning on my 
tongue: coppery water,
the buttery unctuousness 
of toast, honeyed and dark, 
and the faint, crystalline 
effervescence of cold air
when I step outside and the 
world fills my mouth.

This is the world- tactile,
sonorous, fragrant,
palpable.
Not abstract. Not Distant.
A benediction of sensation,
pressing itself, generous 
and vivid, into me.

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