Poppies in Umbria
after Caravaggio
It’s vain to try to hear it, the music
played for God, wings turned against us, the score
inscrutable still. And yet to be struck
by a sense that, if only we could have more
time, or more capacity to capture light—
more spirit—the reds buckling down
through wind’s resistance, a stallion’s radiant
flight, the angel’d turn around.
by Jason Barry
Editor’s Note: This strongly imagistic poem ushers the reader into a moment of contemplation where red flowers and the hush of the landscape conspire to elevate perception into divinity.
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