Our senses translate the unseen,
it’s the place where guardian angels roam,
a child bumps into their solid presence
crossing an empty floor at night
and knows her protectors are there.
The invisible feels real because it is.
You don’t talk about it the way you’d discuss people
and wouldn’t consider asking these questions:
How tall is the wind?
How much does a song weigh?
Is the sun’s heat tall?
Is the snow’s cold short?
Does a smelly lilac need a cut and wash?
Would you ever ask your eyes how old do they have to get
before they can hold a view that takes in a hundred miles of mountains?
The senses translate
the whirr of a hummingbird’s wing,
the siren call of red on a woodpecker’s head,
cold rosy cheeks carried inside the house,
the melody of Smetana’s Moldau river
flows from nose to toes, from brook to ocean,
the breath of a poem blows out of the mouth like wind,
pushed by air that lifts waves, fills sheets and rings chimes.
In fog you smell woodsmoke and know a warm fire is waiting.
Date published: Dec 21, 2017