Sitting

I have not seen stars being born
nor heard the sound the moon makes

to cast its shadow on the trees.
And I have not found the cipher

to the message insects
transmit all through the night;

nor have I understood the shapes
of countries drawn

by flagstones in the yard,
or the aftertaste of clove

that numbs my tongue. Together,
time and rain green

the fluted sides of the bird-
bath, and water smells

like salt or tears. When I
strike a match to light

the lantern, I startle
a papery cloud of wings.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.