Before the afternoon got started,
David drew a caricature of me.
I can't really read it.
There's a word in the poem I'm going to read
it's a flower called lilac.
And I'm Canadian, and I was asking them about it.
Did I say it right?
"Lie-lick?"
"Lie-lack?"
So out of my mouth is "lie-lack," "lie-lock,"
"lie-lick."
Now, I have to write a poem for Dave.
It's not easy being a poet, you know?
The last poem is "The Prune Tree" by Howard Moss--
one of my favorite poems.
"As a torn paper might seal up its side or a streak of water
stitch itself to silk and disappear,
my wound has been my healing.
And I am made more beautiful by losses.
See the flat water in the distance nodding approval,
the light that fell in love with statues?
Seeing me alive, turn its motion toward me.
Sure, I rejoice in what was taken from me.
What can the moonlight do with my new shape
but trace and retrace its miracle of order?
I stand waiting for the strange reaction of insects
who knew me in my larger self.
Unkempt in a naturalness I did not love.
Even the dog's voice rings with a new echo.
And all the little leaves I shed are singing--
singing to the moon of shapely newness.
Somewhere, what I lost I hope is springing to life again.
The roofs astonished by me are taking new bearings
in the night.
The owl is crying for a further wisdom.
The lilac putting forth its strongest scent to find me.
Butterflies like sails in grooves
are winking out of the water to wash me, wash me.
Now, I am a seed stirring in China.