Grace and Peace to you.
The songs of whales enchant,
though the words escape us.
He knows what she said
but he is only beginning to hear it.
The garden lies empty and still,
but beneath, it is neither.
She smiles, while within lies
an underground lake.
The crayon squiggles hung on the fridge
look festive, rough, and random.
No telling what it actually means
to the mom who stuck it there,
or to the boy who drew
that empty green shape
with the dot in it,
that drooping blue line.
As when peering into a narrow hole,
we always block our own light.
The artist conjures the surface of things
precisely to get beyond it.
From an open window, blues sung low,
something stretching farther down
than you can reach.
Copyright © Steve Garnaas-Holmes