Mist a Nimbus Above the World

“And in a painting I would like to say
something consoling, like music.
I would like to paint men and women
with something of that eternal quality
of which long ago the nimbus
was the symbol and which we seek
in the radiance itself, in the trembling
of our color.” – Vincent van Gogh

Our garden is a fairytale this
morning, misty and faint

like a Japanese poem. You can almost
grasp the moment: Scattered last remnants

of moonlight on pond water.
The peonies painted in blotches of pink.

Roses daubed white and yellow.
Last night’s moon lingering, a wafer

under God’s tongue. You can almost
believe that the world wears

my grandmother’s knitted shawl
like I do at breakfast, in pause

before my day, seated at the table with my silent
husband who has nothing to say,

our orange cats fighting on the green circular
rug that revolves like a planet

on the wooden floor. The floorboards creak,
a language I don’t speak—

like the tongues of birds, toads, moss,
crickets, roses. Even the house

apparently wants to tell its story,
though—like moon and sun and time—

it has no mouth. Earth reads our footsteps
and cradles all of our roots in her arms.

We should listen to earth,
to dirt underfoot, crawling with life,

growing our food. To the air
caressing us tenderly

everywhere. And to what mist
whispers into our ears

about taking a pause, being still
before we act. Erasing the things

that don’t matter, the specificity
of lines. When edges

are less defined, we are all
nearer each other.

Published in the Winter ‘21 Issue of LIfe & Legends
You can read the poems here.