Arts Poetica 2

By Jennifer Ferraro

The artist in his profusion of colors and things
pulls together from a scattered world
the face of the one whom he loves.

It loves him.

So that the beating heart of home may be felt
in the body again, the musician plucks his strings
and sings to that nameless thing.

What loves him.

The poet hovers in the silences between
watchful for the stream that sings
it’s been known since listening began.

It loves her.

We want to be loved
when the built sky of dreams fails
and the flimsiest scent falls through our air.

We want to be loved
in specific hands that signify
the hands of all goodness here.

To be taken in hand:
we want
beloved in the mouth

We wander
among bright flowers
and are lost

I’m full of stranger words
that sit on separate benches
in an empty park.

They love me.

© Jennifer Ferraro, 2002—All rights reserved.

Awakening to Beauty Logo