Sense Is What I Love

As in how a moment moves you to see
the grotesque as possibly beautiful:
the white fungus that blooms hoar frost
on limbs blown down in another season—
white, crystalline, erect crystals
in cold weather unclasp like fingers.

It does not melt. It disappears and rises
again all winter. What a show! A mystery
we'd prefer to stay mystery and known only
by form and color. What we love
is our confusion so that perception
goes wrong in the right direction.

You found a limb on the border between
field and woods, placed it on the rock
wall outside our kitchen window. It bloomed
all winter. We thought for us, its purpose
blurring into ours.

Mark Simpson lives on Whidbey Island WA, traditional home of Coast Salish Native Americans. Recent work has appeared in Sleet (Pushcart Prize nominee), Broad River Review (Rash Award Finalist), Columbia Journal (Online), Third Wednesday, and Cold Mountain Review. He is the author of the chapbook Fat Chance (Finishing Line Press).