Blue chair. We whisper. Blue chest. We whisper here. Dresser. Here's the green apple. a woman with braided chestnut hair enters carrying green apples. Here's a red one. the candle. Old jar. Your top hat. Your stained suit. Your frozen garden. It's like van Gogh's girl against a wheat field: the wheat is more important than the girl. Things don't grow and express themselves at the same time. The bottle with the peppermint I accept in its stillness, the rum too. My eyes may swell red and my fingers may grow thick. I will die as you have died. I will choose, at the last moment, to see death in everything -- in corn, in lowers, in birds, and bats. Your frozen garden is close to the skyline that we call the edge. We do not plan to eat things from it. It on the other hand eats at you and me -- and Vincent, too. Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P.O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA 98368-0271, www.cc.press.org | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A PECK OF GOLD by ROBERT FROST MATERNITY by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON QUESTION by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON SONNET TO THOSE WHO SEE BUT DARKLY by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON EIGHTEEN-DOLLAR TAXI TRIP TO TIZAPAN AND BACK TO CHAPALA by CLARENCE MAJOR WINTER GARDEN THEATRE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS DILIGENCE IS TO MAGIC AS PROGRESS IS TO FLIGHT by MARIANNE MOORE |