Even without a camera, humans are always drawing
With light: every two hundred feet across the bridge
Street lamps hold out hope in pools of grey light
Across the tar. From a distance the bridge is almost
Perforated, an embroidery picked out in stars.
Holidays bring out our artistry. Look at the building,
Its roof, eaves and colonnade shining like a geometry
Problem written with a magic wand. And over there,
Across the river, fir trees like pointed wizard hats
Shimmer in gold, red, green and blue, silently.
But summer is best, when we let the colors fly
Into the black silk sky, an explosion of fire flowers:
Ice blue chrysanthemums, connect-the-dot
Scarlet tiger lilies, and the flash and flare of white
Snowbells that fall in a flurry into the river.
The river reflects on the sizzling stamens
As they disintegrate into its depths. It thinks
We are making offerings and perhaps we are.
Take these scattered petals of fire.
Grant us, in return, a year full of light.
I don’t share your view on fire flowers, for I find them much too noisy.
But I love this poem.
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