the gathering verb
In the act of gathering,
the verb becomes the fruit.
Leaned against a white wall
along with ink drawings of a sparrows with white chests,
red birds singing into their mouths,
the dream of black words written across it,
formatted as a love poem.
If I were brave and strong,
I’d gather branches
knit them together, weave and tie,
fold and crease, merge things
who seem to oppose in force,
understanding the laws of attraction,
the way the sun chases the moon,
the way everything moves in slow motion
when I draw two in the picture.
I look it up to try to define it:
noun into verb, the fruit of the gaze,
becomes vibrant, celebrated,
written about, and studied
in the silence of quiet rooms.
If I were to build a love nest,
it would have the sound seashells make
when pressed against your ear.
The way the rain falls so close.
I would not whisper the sound
branches make when they sway
and sweetly fall across air.
I would not whisper the sound
of guitar strings across
your fingertips.
So quiet, they are,
and full of song.
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