It's Still Life

A Cantata

Speak to me
of green, she said.

I said —
vertigris,

crushed mint,
a willow’s yawn,
sap rising,

a cello
in a maple’s veins.

Hear it —

bird-staccato,
crow’s low oboe

through the breeze
in polished bark.

Breathe it —

fern,
grass blades
scissoring light,

pine resin
humming slow gold.

It waits
until you press your ear
to a leaf

and listen
to what is leaving.

She nods,

‘no one will know
how softly
we keep it.’

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