Transpirations

This poem, published in the New Yorker last month, is perfect for Sensory Saturday. It brings you the chatter of magpies, a saxophone, and the smell of pinon crackling in a summertime campfire.

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Transpirations

by Arthur Sze

Leafing branches of a back-yard plum—

branches of water on a dissolving ice sheet—

chatter of magpies when you approach—

lilacs lean over the road, weighted with purple blossoms—

then the noon sun shimmers the grasses—

you ride the surge into summer—

smell of piñon crackling in the fireplace—

blued notes of a saxophone in the air—

not by sand running through an hourglass but by our bodies igniting—

passing in the form of vapors from a living body—

this world of orange sunlight and wildfire haze—

world of iron filings pulled toward magnetic south and north—

pool of quicksilver when you bend to tie your shoes—

standing, you well up with glistening eyes—

have you lived with utmost care?—

have you articulated emotions like the edges of leaves?—

adjusting your breath to the seasonal rhythm of grasses—

gazing into a lake on a salt flat and drinking, in reflection, the Milky Way—