By Cleo Griffith
I read that there is no color,
that it is only our eyes
which see different gradations
and make them glorious.
There is no sound if we are not there
for our remarkable ears
to decipher and make of vibration
such delights as crickets and music.
There is no flavor but that our tastebuds recognize.
Softness is a sensation we are given skin to react.
Were we not there when blossoms come,
no perfume could enchant.
Such gifts we have been given,
to make of all these situations
beauty out of nothing,
all the nothings of this universe.
And love? The most precious gift
we can neither see, hear nor touch?
I think it lies here in our invisible souls,
the one true thing in all this fantasy.
Cleo Griffith has been on the Editorial Board of Song of the San Joaquin poetry quarterly since it began in 2003. Widely-published, she has appeared in Main Street Rag, Straylight and Westward Quarterly, among others.
Beautiful presentation, thank you so much.
Love the poem Cleo. Roberta