I’m startled by this sumac
increasingly resplendent
every time I see it,
growing over my neighbor’s
driveway. I so want to
get at what it is, to describe
the redness of its fruit
deepening past crimson,
deepening past ruby.
I want to understand by starting
as I usually do, with it
is like. But it is
more and more like
itself only, and chastening,
its color seems to proclaim
that a day comes when
the time for naming
will be over. Soon,
it seems to say,
it will take no imagination
to see things as they are.
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