I wish I could paint you a picture
of the tan-gold un-leafed swamp limbs
reaching up to the God-blue sky,
their split-hair tips
embracing the sun.
But I’m afraid my eight Crayola watercolors
couldn’t capture the brilliance of the sky I bathe in,
and my stick figures
would do no justice to the ramrods standing there,
even though they are only sticks after all.
And I wish I could charade for you
how my feet sank into the waiting, ready grass,
how I found my own private pocket of mud
and how it enveloped my toesal region
with its cool and melancholic joy.
But I don’t know how to express this
without becoming a jester,
without seeming the fool,
when all I want is that you know the childhood that I found
there in the mud.
And I deeply wish I could sing for you
the glad, glad song of the redwing blackbirds
as they gleefully shouted,
“Rejoice, rejoice, for spring is here!”
“Please, please, mate with me.”
“Oh dear, oh dear, why does that rude intruder disrupt us so?”
(I couldn’t tell which.)
And even more, the song of the grass
as it captured my feet,
gurgling for all the world
like an acre-wide bowl of Rice Krispies.
But my voice is too weak
for the thunder of the Spring,
and the chords in my throat
just can’t play such a melody
without sounding like yet another cover band of the Beatles.
It pains me that
I cannot paint justly enough,
I cannot show you earnestly enough,
I cannot sing loudly enough.
And I lay here on a simple bridge
in a simple gathering of brush
by a simple lake
in a simple land.
But that is enough to awe me
and to render me incapable
of anything other than