7/19/22 Workshop – A Poem by Ada Limón

What It Looks Like To Us and the Words We Use
by Ada Limón

All these great barns out here in the outskirts,
black creosote boards knee-deep in the bluegrass.
They look so beautifully abandoned, even in use.
You say they look like arks after the sea’s
dried up, I say they look like pirate ships,
and I think of that walk in the valley where
J said, You don’t believe in God? And I said,
No. I believe in this connection we all have
to nature, to each other, to the universe.
And she said, Yeah, God. And how we stood there,
low beasts among the white oaks, Spanish moss,
and spider webs, obsidian shards stuck in our pockets,
woodpecker flurry, and I refused to call it so.
So instead, we looked up at the unruly sky,
its clouds in simple animal shapes we could name
though we knew they were really just clouds—
disorderly, and marvelous, and ours.

Reflective writing prompt:
Write about how the world looks to you.

 

One thought on “7/19/22 Workshop – A Poem by Ada Limón

  1. My response to today’s prompt:

    A steamy aura rises from concrete covering lawn and dirt and untold pieces of rock and pipes and who-knows-what-else underneath. This is when we’re looking down at our feet. You say, “look up!” and the world opens Freely ~ skies of aqua blue and clouds wisping through ~ the rustle of leaves, and the dead, coat-rack tree on the corner. Will they ever remove it before the mushrooms gnawing and clinging devour it whole? The world breathes out. Heat rising from the street.

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