Today's poem is by Angie Estes

It Is Virtually Without Thickness and Has Almost

no weight. If rubbed between forefinger
and thumb, it will fade
into nothing. If dropped, it hardly seems
to flutter downwards. If it settles
on a hard surface ruffled or folded
it can be straightened out
with a puff of breath, unwrinkling
itself like a shimmering
shaken blanket. It can be
hammered thinner and
thinner without ever
crumbling away. It can
be eaten and seems
to vanish on the tongue,
but a good translation
should have some memory
of its original language: The statue lies
in a freshly excavated hole, dirt
and rocks tossed into
the bushes but robes
still clinging to her breasts
and thighs. The man standing
next to her, visible only
above the knee, has laid aside
his shovel: one hand rests on what's left
of her arm while the other brushes
her stone hair once read The past tense
of sit is satin and as the world
rolls into dusk, everything is
quiet except for a robin
breaking small pieces of light
in its beak: the less light, the more
fragrant the lilacs glow

Copyright © 2009 Angie Estes All rights reserved
from Ninth Letter
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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