A poem is the reverse of a loose thread on a sweater. Pull on a loose thread and the sweater unravels. Poets, on the other hand, ravel the seemingly disparate threads of the world together, weaving a red wheelbarrow with white chickens, ice cream with an emperor, a loaded gun with Emily Dickinson’s life. These jarring odd juxtapositions make an intelligent sense deeper than logic alone.
Poet,
ravel me a verse out of stars and wine,
out of the crow’s caw caw,
the velvet damp darkness of storms,
the iridescent fire on the trout’s sleek flank.
Ravel love with rain
seeping into flawed stones.
Ravel stones with green shoots
springing through hard places.
Ravel age with autumn,
leaves, wet gold on the ground.
Ravel a woman strong among bare branches.