Aug. 03, 2022 06:43am
Peconic Bay, Shelter Island
Open my poetry bible to random page,
Whitman possibilities endless, his inspirations
of human essences distilled, a parfum of
sounds and smells, touched words, an airborne
mist of spray penetrating deep, tickling cells’ walls.
In Whitman, where all my journeys end, the luster
of all that presents to the half-dressed eye is restored
to its original color, a reverse osmosis where the coatings
of crusty salts that nightly accumulate, word-washed away.
miracle!
The restorer~forgers freshen original hues,
a creator’s helpers, workpeople tasked by
whom
matters not,
for even those
whose all senses impaired,
inhale new born air that informs
the body entire that the natural
shadings have been renewed.
as if
a virginal placenta
of pure best has cracked open,
refilling the palette of the morning, colorists
of new dab pretending it’s a first time re-gifting,
an original vista, sanctifying all who welcome-willing,
finding new combinations words to etch and fetch what
is deliciously indescribable, what is given freely, but to whom?
To each.
To each of us.
within each
our own
leaves of grass.
