WHAT MARY TOLD ME

Lush, she said.  Write a lush poem.
Paint it with red geraniums, cast iron grates,
garbage cans clanging, a cat licking herself
with long wet strokes.  The great artists
didn’t squeeze themselves into little
boxes.  They just made the canvas bigger. 
Go ahead, add details.  The first bloom
of honeysuckle leaves.  The fine lines on his hands
when he reads.  The way the earth breathes
after a thunderstorm. Don’t stop
to care what anyone might think.
Say it all.  Climb to the rooftop.  Look
across the brick chimneys, the grey streets,
the treetops bursting into spring.  Fill
the sky with great swirls of colour.


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Published in The Distillery