I snap the twig to try to trap the springing and I relearn the same lesson. You cannot make a keepsake of this season. Your heart's not the source of that sort of sap, lacks what it takes to fuel, rejects the graft, though for a moment it's your guilty fist that's flowering. You're no good host to this extremity that points now, broken, back at the dirt as if to ask are we there yet. You flatter this small turn tip of a larger book of matches that can't refuse its end, re-fuse itself, un-flare. Sure. Now forget again. Here's a new green vein, another clutch to take, give, a handful of seconds.
In my favorite version, the man recites the alphabet
over and over, and when asked, he says he is praying.
He admits he lacks the words, but says perhaps if he provides
enough letters, God can piece his purpose back together.
The word is kavanah, translates to concentration or intent,
without which, the words lie inert. And with? Call it all rise.
The urge made agent, leavens the lips, tongue, throat, and eyes.
In other words, heart’s yes, yeast, or likens to, likewise lives,
needs no light to grow. What say the brewer and baker?
What of the grapes in the sun with the yes on their skin,
the blush or bloom? And what of this yes’s twin, the, as they say,
opportunistic pathogen? I don’t believe I know. I’d like to ask
someone who knows, summon my strongest letters together and say:
How long do you think you knew before you knew you knew? Or rather,
how long do you think you think you knew before you dressed
your I guess in the yes you said I do to, to know you know now?