Why Noah Drank
He still heard them
on the ark.
Songs and Letters, June 18, 2008
Some are flowers, bleeding at the stems.
Some are frost on windowpanes.
Some are haunted, some reserved.
A westbound bus on a sun-blind curve.
Some look back when you least expect it.
A lightning flash. A winding path.
A baby bird.
In 2017, on the tenth day of June, two drawings were made.
I have no other record of that day — unless, perhaps,
I were to go back and examine the month’s bank statement.
If we went anywhere, or spent any money,
I like to think it was for strawberries.
To take a lifetime to write it, even when it appears quickly and suddenly on the page.
To discover how deep are its roots, and how bright its leaves.
To see the space around it, the light behind it, and the shadows it casts.
To listen to it breathe.
To marvel at its strength, in a savage and brutal age.
To die for it, if that’s what it takes.
To read through the fire, and write from the grave.