← v21n3, Spring 2023Poetry · 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.
