Poetica No Apologia Arty Kumbaya
       

I am not a minister's son or a former pro boxer
but I have a few things to say.

My children collect pieces of gravel
separating distinct piles of subtle color.

The Arbor Day Foundation sent me a dozen saplings
to plant anywhere in America. One night they landed

in an old lover's yard. Years ago.
I cannot tell you how many are still growing.

I know a woman whose life revolves around dried flowers
and that's okay. I never tire of the soft moans of mourning

doves, though some call them glorified pigeons.
What's wrong with pigeons, glorified or not?

As long as they don't shit on your head.
There's no predicting when you'll find a tiny shell

in a pile of gravel. So tiny you can almost imagine
an ant holding it to its ear and hearing the sea.

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Copyright © 2013 Jim Daniels All rights reserved
from Birth Marks
BOA Editions
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