WEBVTT

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Before the afternoon
got started,

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David drew a caricature of me.

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I can't really read it.

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There's a word in the
poem I'm going to read

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it's a flower called lilac.

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And I'm Canadian, and I
was asking them about it.

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Did I say it right?

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"Lie-lick?"

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"Lie-lack?"

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So out of my mouth is
"lie-lack," "lie-lock,"

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"lie-lick."

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Now, I have to write
a poem for Dave.

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It's not easy being
a poet, you know?

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The last poem is "The Prune
Tree" by Howard Moss--

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one of my favorite poems.

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"As a torn paper might seal up
its side or a streak of water

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stitch itself to
silk and disappear,

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my wound has been my healing.

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And I am made more
beautiful by losses.

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See the flat water in the
distance nodding approval,

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the light that fell
in love with statues?

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Seeing me alive, turn
its motion toward me.

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Sure, I rejoice in
what was taken from me.

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What can the moonlight
do with my new shape

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but trace and retrace
its miracle of order?

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I stand waiting for the
strange reaction of insects

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who knew me in my larger self.

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Unkempt in a naturalness
I did not love.

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Even the dog's voice
rings with a new echo.

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And all the little leaves
I shed are singing--

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singing to the moon
of shapely newness.

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Somewhere, what I lost I hope
is springing to life again.

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The roofs astonished by
me are taking new bearings

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in the night.

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The owl is crying
for a further wisdom.

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The lilac putting forth its
strongest scent to find me.

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Butterflies like
sails in grooves

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are winking out of the
water to wash me, wash me.

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Now, I am a seed
stirring in China.

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