Language is a tailor’s shop where nothing fits.” – Rumi


I can’t fit words around

a feeling I carry

sweeter than sadness

sliding past the shape of questions.

As I snip parsley from its blue pot

I consider how

each injury a leaf suffers

triggers an electric charge,

the way an alarm flashes

as a building is breached.


When very young I knew for sure

everything was its own kind of awake.

Honeysuckle vine and bees visiting it.

Air trapped in a room, the room itself.

Dark watchful eyes of animals,

wild speech of water,

still presence of stone.

Everything, far

into unseen universes

awake beyond our small knowing.


Although thank is too weak a word

I want to thank this parsley plant.

Is it enough to notice each leaf’s symmetry

before the soft green shush under my scissors?

Is it enough to taste the transfiguration

we call photosynthesis?

I can’t put it into words,

but can almost summon

lost memories of an original

language we once held in common.