by Jim Davis
Here is the sweet, musty smell of bloom and pollination,
crabapple blossoms in late May, the drowsy breeze
escorting perfume though temperate sky,
irreplicable in word, paint, or any false combination
of sight and sound, valid only through experience.
And here, in the pages of a notebook,
memories of Valencia, Bolzano, Madrid, visages
from a balcony, from the banks of River Shannon.
Bookmarked by a ticket stub: a page imbued with meaning,
a thin canvas asked to assume heavy responsibility:
this is idol worship. I am reminded
of raindrops on Ireland’s stone walls,
bundled in winter doldrums, pounded
by sheets of stinging rain, the ache
of remembrance, and the immortal beauty
of a woman, posing for a portrait
beneath Spring’s blooming trees.