Sunday Morning Poetry

The words came without their numbers.
At first they came in pairs
like animals onto the ark.

Tangerine came with hustle
splendor with taboo.

Some made a little electrical ping
when they touched the ground.

They hadn't been uttered
and were all still shiny and intact.
Nothing had been broken by them yet.

Birds draped words over their bodies
like starts of Bethlehem,

saffron celestial surge surrender

Their colors were so bright no one,
had anyone been present,
could have looked at them directly.
As if they'd just come from the sun.

I would be as ignorant as the dawn.

Words like this kept falling from somewhere.

Not like rain, though it was raining,
      kangaroo flame
      phosphorescent spin
words came and wouldn't stop coming,
      imbue terrestrial seed soon

in a rush
in wildest light
that first
wet morning.

~ Susan G. Wooldridge

The poem above is from the book Foolsgold by Susan G. Wooldridge.  I took the photograph of the painting above at the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas; A Scheme in Red and Grays by Robert Frederick Blum