Light builds the illusion of the world.
The stalks fandango in fall and flag—
The iris yields to wind, the furl
A yield of spring. The floral slag
Thickened, wooly, plump. Call
The color with buried breath, dig
For hues you seldom use to divine
Fuchsia from magenta from violetine.
Let others deliberate nomenclature,
Argue the heights of blue, the spectra
Of the night’s flush and dolor,
As you see in a tickle of flora
The reflection of a world cast into being
With a lift of your lids, languid, each dew-
Besotted chase of a wish made dreaming—
A faith in sun, its reach in arrows true,
Aflame, generative and swift—your pearl:
Light builds the illusion of the world.
Gabriel Welsch is the author of Groundscratchers, a collection of short stories, and four poetry collections, the most recent being The Four Horsepersons of a Disappointing Apocalypse. His work has appeared widely in journals including Ploughshares, Southern Review, THRUSH, Harvard Review, Moon City Review, Lake Effect, and Missouri Review. He lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, with his family, and works as vice president of marketing and communications at Duquesne University.
