How.
How did we get so far
from how the green peach of magnolia
blossom unfurls itself?
The tender gray fuzz of the bud
opening
like the pussy-willows
of youthful day-dreams.
To describe it is to see it.
And it is at seeing
we fail.
We flatten the crown
of ancient blue mountains
into paper.
Pulp.
Dust.
We are taught to close our eyes
hold our noses
don’t touch!
Who is brave but the one
to extend a tongue
into the black mouth of the sky,
and wait for the unseen
atmosphere to relieve
them with a drop
of sixling rain.
Our falling
will change us,
reveal what is within
hidden in the soft flow
that pulses forward
in the xylem,
the magma,
the arteries,
in the solar wind
moon dancing.
Spin.
Courage is always a prayer.
—
Noel Wingard is a poet, artist, and published biophysicist. Her poems have been performed as interpretive dance internationally, exhibited at The Grotto, featured in Culture On the Line, as well as published in GROUND journal, Willows Wept Review, and Hail Muse! Etc. She is a two-time alum of the Ashbery Homeschool, a long-time member of The Virginia Center for the Book, and a member of Not-the-Rodeo Poets. She resides in the mid-Atlantic like an electron cloud.
