In A Japanese Garden (Como Park, St. Paul Mn)

The painter is silent,
half-hidden behind her easel.
Above her the bonsai speaks
in a delicate dialect of branches
from which two crows caw their rapture.

Ripples of speech disturb the pond
whose quiet water is as green as
the tea we drank this morning
while we talked about 'the ten thousand things'.
Silent now, we stare

at two gray boulders
and read in their white streaks
whispers of a prehistory
that will forever enfold us
in a world of language

where everything has a name
that eventually comes to the waiting mind.
The painter remains silent.
Her wide brush scatters colors
across 'the nothing' of her canvas.

We wonder, What does her painting say?
But she will not speak to us.
As we walk passed her, talking softly,
she mixes blue and red and black
into a shape that words will never name.

by Daniel Brick

Comments (2)

I hope you always 'start to reach for his hand'. Lovely poem.
I just stumbled upon this gem. Great work - funny and touching and to the point. Hope you come back and give us some more, Robert. -chuck