Ruminate
By: John Grey
I've become accustomed
to my own amazement
at what the river is doing.
It flows and eddies,
my awe and that current likewise.
And both are slow, but purposeful, carvers:
the banks, the rocks,
the heart, the head —
it's all the same.
Then there's stars,
such fodder for the fanciful.
I know they're balls of burning gases
just as I know they're diadems
pasted on the backwall of the night.
Their light could be from long past
and yet in the moment.
My senses can accommodate
whatever the scientists and the poets say.
While I'm at it,
I'll pick a wild rose for you.
A lovely flower indeed —
outgrowths on the epidermis,
insect–pollinated,
bright red hips…
if you looked like this,
I wouldn't love you.
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