Friday, September 21, 2018

How Can I Give (Day 611)


How can I give you 
a tree—a fog-enfolded sequoia, 
or a sap-spitting sycamore 
   with dinner-plate leaves—
when you have never swooned 
   over the honeyed scent of freesias, 
   blooming in a sun-drenched courtyard? 
How can I give you 
that courtyard, 
that gathering of nodding, blue-and-yellow 
trumpets, when you have never 
spread your blanket on a patch of ground 
   redolent of hot pine resin 
   and sun-baked dust? 
How can I give to you the unknowable
—the kiss of minnows at your toes?
—the Red Riding Hood flash of a cardinal 
   against bare November woods?
—the soft, secret joy of a heart 
    that would always have been yours? 


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Wikimedia Commons