← v21n3, Spring 2023
Poetry · Volume 21, Number 3

Wild Sweet Pea

In the margin between the hard surface and the grasses,

a tangle of small pink wings: sweet peas.

I read that the brain naturally gravitates toward negative

thoughts. A negativity bias. A wariness, a worry

for survival. Nevertheless, extravagant shades of pink.

Nevertheless, the billows of August, pointlessly excellent,

textured, wings (open hands), afloat on a sea of green

on this day in which the eye is sick from colluding with

the mind. In which there is this clarity, this brilliance,

and a gust of birds. We are all in the same place!

We (the whole of everything) are like lovers

who must ignore each other a while. In order to turn

to risk each other again. The small blossoming fear

that comes with knowing this will end.