THE  27Th  EDITIOn

After Jack Gilbert

 

The heart is a foreign country

who’s language none of us

can speak nor write, but 

at times, when listening, can hear. Out there,

 

the consonance of rain clapping

against a thick-trunked redwood,

and the assonance as each drop drips

down that distance into the wet earth. Out there,

 

the sound just below the sound 

of the young boy whispering into the ear

of his mother on the crowded train,

and the sound at the tips of her smile 

as she listens and nods her head. Out there,

 

the orange sound of a candle against

the night, and the soft sound of fingertips

brushing dust off the skin of a peach. Out there, 

 

the sound suspended in the silence 

as sets of lips separate, remaining

until just before they revisit again.

 

To comprehend a meaning in all of that,

or worse, to attempt to translate 

that language, would be too much. 

Would be greedy.

Selfish, even.