Through a cool, gray pane I watch a northern day
slowly quit. But one corner says no, not here.
Lit by a singular fire, the quince bush
flaunts her vermillion tips.
Her language is more vital to me
than my own tongue, nearly stopped years ago
in this suburban yard.
I’ve since learned how risky it is,
and how unwise, to disdain
an insistent heart and the native desire
to run or retreat, flee or fight it out.
Whatever it is that must-
must interrupt, rage and shout, make a stand
or publicly flame out
like a discontent, loudly blossoming
and rudely colored
fountain of quince-
then you must let it.
Chris Cantu is a writer and artist living in Edmonds, Washington. She spends a lot of time in her studio listening to woodpeckers and painting abstract art. She is a guide at the Frye Museum in Seattle and an avid upcycler of household goods.
Copyright 2018, Chris Cantu