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When I Don't Know What to Call This


       Flowers I can't name
   bloom in a pink profusion
       namelessly complete—

if I say petal, what else have I done

       but make each one one
   and the same by giving them
       one name? Flowering,

the tree itself has said it all already,

       more eloquently,
   the way our days together—
       moment by moment—

once said themselves as perfectly as one

       could ever wish time
   to be said. That time now gone
       without our having

discovered what to term this time apart—

       minutes prolific
   as leaf after greeny leaf—
       I must come to trust

these days will say themselves as certainly

       as petal or stem,
   and that on some unknown one
       soon, we'll find ourselves

daydreaming in the fallen ring of them.


Stephen Kampa

Articulate as Rain
Waywiser Press


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