Knowing what is true can be foreign
By Lynn Finger
October 15, 2022
October 15, 2022
|
|
We cannot create language, only discover it
in cold yellowing leaves and unswept steps. I want more time so we can look backwards again. Having fallen, you are in bed in the nursing home. You want to stay there and sleep. Not all birds migrate south for the winter. A cardinal outside your window wrings sound from air. You don’t have to be happy to make a song, and so quote sparrows who don’t look to the wind anymore. I hear your words alight now, rising to recall a trip to London, talk to someone not here. A virid lizard suns by the wall. Hemispheric light drinks greedy across the weeds. When people fall like melted candles, something in us shrinks too. Ungreen aspen leaves drop across the rocks with angled shadows. You don’t answer me now. The sun doesn’t rise quick enough when it’s cold. Sometimes knowing what is true can be foreign. |
Lynn Finger’s writings have appeared in 8Poems, Perhappened, Book of Matches, Fairy Piece, Drunk Monkeys, and Anti-Heroin Chic. Lynn also has a poetry chapbook released this year, The Truth of Blue Horses, published by Alien Buddha Press. She was nominated for the 2021 Best of the Net Anthology. Lynn edits Harpy Hybrid Review and works with a group that mentors writers in prison. Her Twitter is @sweetfirefly2.