Don’t be foolish. No, be foolish.
Each of these trees was once a seed.
Look down the road till it’s all mist and fumes:
Of course your journey is impossible.
It’s stupidly hot for September and yet here’s
an eddy, a gust, something to stir you
as the high leaves of the walnut are stirred,
as fine droplets touch you, touch the table
and the deck, no explanation, no design.
And beauty is like God, mystery
in plain sight, silent, hesitating
in leaves and the shadows of leaves,
in the carved fish painted and nailed
to the railing, in skeins of cloud
and searching fly and pale blue
scrim of sky and seas of emptiness
and dazzle, fusion and spin,
fire and oblivion and all that lies
on the other side of oblivion.
Copyright © 2018 Jennifer Atkinson. This poem originally appeared in The Cincinnati Review, Summer 2018. Used with permission of the author.