How can I give you
a tree—a fog-enfolded sequoia,
or a sap-spitting sycamore
with dinner-plate leaves—
when you have never swooned
over the honeyed scent of freesias,
blooming in a sun-drenched courtyard?
How can I give you
that courtyard,
that gathering of nodding, blue-and-yellow
trumpets, when you have never
spread your blanket on a patch of ground
redolent of hot pine resin
and sun-baked dust?
How can I give to you the unknowable
—the kiss of minnows at your toes?
—the Red Riding Hood flash of a cardinal
against bare November woods?
—the soft, secret joy of a heart
that would always have been yours?
(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: Wikimedia Commons
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