Through Glances at the Sun
Through Glances at the Sun
Poetry has a silent power
In the way that poets
don’t need words to communicate
With one another;
We simply see a wildflower
Sprouting from a chip in concrete,
Or the sky
Smattered with stars,
Or a tree branch
Coiled with winter lights,
And our eyes shimmer;
Our breaths lengthen,
Our lungs blossoming with each one,
The corners of our lips turning up
Until we reach into our bags
To pull out a pen
And start scrawling
On whatever paper we have
Crumpled into our pockets;
As we write,
We can watch one another’s eyes flick
Subtly up towards the sun,
And feel our hearts
Being handed a gift
By the raw veins of another,
And within creases of the wrapping,
We are given all the words
A poem contains,
Plus every one that cannot fit;
We do this all silently,
Cupping the world in our palms,
Tilting it towards the sun
Along with our own subtle glances.
The Voice
February 2025
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