Once I would say “table,” and mean
“table.” Once, I would say
“broccoli” and mean “broccoli.”
I would say “stone” and mean
“stone.” I really did believe
that things were separate.
And nameable. Now,
every word that comes
out of my mouth, no matter
how many syllables, no matter
the tone of voice, no matter
my intention, I’ve come to understand
that every word
is really just a translation
for thank you,
thank you for this moment.
And every silence between the words,
regardless how brief,
is really just the sound
of one hand in gratitude clapping.
Posted by kind permission of the poet. This poem first appeared on Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer’s daily poem blog, A Hundred Falling Veils.
With lines unseen the land was broken. When surveyors came, we knew what the prophet…
To pray you open your whole self To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon…
You are not fifteen, or twelve, or seventeen— You are a hundred wild centuries And…
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