Living With What I Cannot Find, by David B. Prather

Red Poppies, by Mary Cassatt (USA) 1874-80.

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Living With What I Cannot Find 

I can’t tell you the pleasures of the world. 
That is something you must walk into, 
bobbing red heads of flowers, 
whispers of yellow, white, and blue, 
the lace of green leaves beneath your feet. 
Cities grow unseen past the horizon, quick 
as an ache.  But I can tell you I remember 
my mother, my grandmother, my sister 
digging for the roots.  They want 
to transplant the beauty of living things, 
to spread the paint of one hillside 
upon another.  But sometimes 
beauty does not hold.  Soil is not the same 
from one plot to another.  Listen to me, 
speaking of ideals as though everything 
is as simple as a dwindling sky, a few 
lingering clouds, a modest shadow 
on the hill in the distance.  I can’t tell you 
what made me say those things.  Maybe 
the tall grass behind me says 
what I want to hear, tells me 
a day like this is all I need. 
If you want to find me, you can, 
out beyond the edges of this 
                            perfect world. 

David B. Prather

David B. Prather studied creative writing at Warren Wilson College.  His debut collection of poetry, We Were Birds, is forthcoming from Main Street Rag Publishing.  His work has appeared in several online and print journals, including Prairie Schooner, Colorado Review, Poet Lore, The Literary Review, The American Journal of Poetry, The Sunflower Review, Gyroscope Review, and many others.  He lives in Parkersburg, WV.