Ian Parks

If I don't say it someone will: the wind blows through the goldenrod like death flows through a crowd. I watch it from a distance as the whole field lifts and stirs. Close up, it holds the promise of a less than perfect world. I knew the thing before I knew its name. Now all I know is what the name infers: a life of pure sensation or the rod some angel brings— announcing a momentous death or birth, each face expectant, brightly-lit. I say the name and what it means until the meaning blurs. The wind blows through the goldenrod like death flows through a crowd. Nothing is accomplished and the world is changed by it.