What I have come to say is never quite
_____sufficient; what I have come to say falls
ever short, if reliably—my one,
_____my only certainty. This fact, for now,
can prove both deep discouragement and deep,
_____elusive hope. I’ve come to trust our words’
most modest crapshoot; I have come, as well,
_____to see their limit as my proof. If, one
fresh morning, I should come to apprehend
_____how ever full with presence every breath
now is—and even now—I have a sense
_____my words would grow so heavy as to still.
I suppose that morning then would open
_____to our eighth day, whose sunrise will not set.

 —for Warren Farha

The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

Access one piece of artwork every month for free! To experience the full archive, log in or subscribe.

Related Poetry

Woman’s Constancy


Margaret Rabb



Stephen Haven

water that is in waving lines, blue and green and lit by sun over a bed of stones.

We Become the Monkey Girl


Judith Ortiz Cofer

Row of books in a shelf with a slant of light across them.

This Time on Earth


Dick Allen

Pin It on Pinterest