Learning to Fathom, by Jay Jacoby
Learning to Fathom
They slide past without ever seeing, cackling about the linoleum
in their grandmother’s kitchen, their son’s recent finger-painting.
I stand and wait for whitecaps to furrow your moss-sea surface,
for any disturbance in the colour field. Light transforms two hours:
Viridian, artichoke, emerald, forest, sage, juniper, lime, crocodile.
You’ve returned from Giverny and gifted us with this green table—
much better than any blank slate—where we can inscribe our lives.
Thank you, Ellsworth, for losing your hard edge, for inviting us
to float on this generous verdant plain, to submerge, to immerse
ourselves in prairies of wild celery and meadows of fine eelgrass,
to undulate with your undertow, to somersault with your waves.
I can plumb your avocado shallows, sound your seaweed depths.
I’ve learned how to swim. I’m stretched, flexed, and ready to dive.
Jay Jacoby: "I am a happily retired English professor having taught for most of my career at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. I now live in the Western North Carolina mountains and I'm able to focus my energies on creative writing. My writing has appeared in such journals as Asheville Poetry Review, Cold Mountain Review, Meat for Tea, and The Jewish Literary Journal."
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