Recollected Poems by Cory Zacharia

Glorious late summer, sun flirts by

dappling light, a Japanese fan

that lightly conceals a lady's smile.

Bright tingly laughter, swaying lights on branches

the transparency of rice paper screens.

Glinting wind.

Deep greens with lights like through

a cellar window,

concealing, revealing layers past

evoking mossiness.

Bushes sing, trees sing,

Birds trumpet their organizing caws.

Is there fearlessness on the deathless plane?

Why am I afraid to fully describe my surroundings,

worried that my words might fall, unleavened?

I'd forget the tangly pansy-like vines

raveled around the mugwort.

The flowers, clarions, pink as morning,

purple as night, one white, speckled rose,

opened, calling for attention.

If summer lasted long enough,

they might circle the whole house,

but instead, egoless, they mulch

and sleep away the winter,

returning with the second heat.

I had unearthed all these visitors,

preparing the ground for a vegetable crop.

After I tossed in arugula and watercress seeds,

I left for weeks and returned to find them,

Hardy, all wrapped around each other,

a fine salad nestled in my welcoming bed.