Late winter wattle makes the day more tractable
as if somehow seasons on a plant
replace seasons of unimaginable
light, of which, I know, I am
supposed to be grateful for. Therefore I swallow
the language of ancestors. The obvious Latin loiters
in the carved-tear leaf of green inlaid with blue
and in my grandfather’s hand …
isn’t what you know it’s what you do.
I suspect a lack of faith is part of the charm.
The bees enjoy the wads for what they are.
A far more Germanic philosopher
might notice how the bark gets slightly darker
and craft a message of the amber sap
as it spills to solidify. It hardly matters
if there is such brightness in the dark.
It is not instructive, not an omen, but a knot of winter
wattle. What else do you want?