for Nicole Ringgold

The silversmith smiths
    at her overworked bench,
        an open secret behind garden shop walls.

Three pear and verbena
    guard this heavenly space
        where she perfects her demi-metal urges.

Tarnished, burnished hands
    weave wire and soldered sheet
        into brightly riveting textured art.

Botanic warp and weft
    inspire her crafter’s eye
        while dying soil outside beds down, buried in snow.

Sterling all, smiths and poets
    decompose soon enough:
        yard food, yes–yet silver-tongued, immortal.

About Greg Wright

I have worn many hats as a writer and editor over the years. Unlike my scholarly and journalistic work from the "old days" at Hollywood Jesus, Past the Popcorn, or SeaTac Blog, the writing here is of a more overtly personal and spiritual nature. I hope it provokes you as much as it provokes me.
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