Through a Glass Lightly

Cento for Beginners

The nasturtium is to itself already

a memory. It opens its leaves

its fire

ribbed impression in the grass

that forms like shadow.

I see it plain

as a living fretwork

in the distortion of sound,

press a leaf to a winter dream

of your hand

translated, given.

Our love calls and we lie

in the future of cells dividing,

a water drop

clean in its own shape.

A nasturtium between itself

and us, showing the light.

Time to be born.

Originally published in First Light, by Giramondo Press.