We come to the garden,
surrounded by unwatching eyes
set in grimacing frozen faces,
ears that do not tremble
to the vibration of birdsong in the air,
rigid hands that reach out
but can never grasp or even touch,
riven noses (why are they always
first to go?) unable to enjoy
the fragrance of the gentlest flower.
And what to say about the tongues?
Stonestill as if caught mid-word
with no way to finish the thought,
complete the image, not one, not one
of them to sing the mystery,
except by what can only be called
the greatest of all miracles,
a warming to life.
Written for dVerse on the occasion of their third anniversary. Dedicated to poets everywhere who are attempting to see, hear, smell, touch, and speak of what we experience.