Reading Sylvia

I am a flicker to her candle

crumb to her cake

letter to her novel

pebble to her lake

I am a paw print to her lion

flake to her snow

ray to her noonday sun

tent to her chateaux 

This sallow, sorry morning

I water the garden before the sun is high,

and count many dawning yellow-white blossoms

on just one tomato vine.

Every day I am wondering,

how far is love to reach?

- and now I heard of bombing - 

There’s water on my hands and feet.

There’s water on my hands and feet

and in the air around me.

How far can love reach

on this sallow, sorry morning?

Two and carrying

a book half his size

to the register!

Who are you at the black walnut tree?

Friend texting poetry - 

poetry diving deep, flying beyond the sky?

Yes. We are not born. We do not die.

We mourn and laugh and sing and cry

together, all together though, 

we do not know.