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Language and Experience
I consistently confuse the marsh frog
with the purple pitcher plant.
Maybe it's because each alike makes
a smooth spine of the light, a rounded
knot of forbearance from mud.
And which is blackbird? which prairie thistle?
They both latch on, glean, mind their futures
with numerous sharp nails and beaks.
Falling rain and water fleas are obviously
synonyms, both meaning countless
curling pocks of pond motion.
And aren't seeding cottonwood laces
and orb weavers clearly the same--clever
opportunists with silk?
I call field stars and field crickets
one and the other, because they're both
scattered in thousands of notches
throughout the night. And today I mistook
a blue creekside of lupine for generosity,
the way it held nothing back. O reed
canary grasses and grace--someone tell me
the difference again.
Write this down: my voice and a leaf
of aspen winding in the wind--we find the sun
from many spinning sides.
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