I’m raving about the clean skin smell of my new book of poetry written by a little-known genius who refers to himself as the one who holds everything together, the revolving “spit of God.”
Add that to the way a poem can sneak out back over the fence and peddle away with the other truants to find Mexican pastries, sunburns, and fresh hope;
How it can wrangle whip-wispy stray wants into the folds of salty pages; how it will magnify the sun into new fire-like glass, like a surfer in morning mood, and then you have something
bold, pregnant with the fragrance of this now sky under which I adore the smell of fresh garden dirt on my dog’s paws, the scent of blood orange juice on my fingers.
And I don’t even mind a refrigerator full of college-town frozen snacks in cardboard boxes, favorites of a post-surgery husband in his fort of ice and pets and elixer.
I am grateful for the lingering magical perfume of a brand new friend’s superpower —enchanting joy. Add that to the posse of benevolent extraterrestrials surrounding her—their sparkling cocked blue heads, their toes twirling like a child’s in the curious air like sand— and you have perplexion, erased.
I’m not afraid of this new pausing nighttime journey; the wakeful Magician stomping through Major Arcana territories, now a Fool’s dream, now fearless and roaring as a High Priestess, now wheeled, now measuring, now soft and gathering as a Star.
I am raving about colors only butterflies can see! I praise the blackness of tree bark in rain against the translucent blue eastern morning sky; and how spring wastes no time being, effortless.
I’m up early to witness everything that comes to me, everything that I called in these gold hours, how the color of love morphs in metallic blue discovery, lip-pink maybe, and a leaf-green, quiet, free yes.
I’m raving for the ever-living potency of the mood of appreciation, like that good song, how she jumps up and down, on days like this, a rabbit free of the hawk, hands on cheeks, squealing in that pony-loving sprite-glee is-this-really-real way.
© Jill Cooper
About the Author
Jill Cooper’s writing has appeared in literary journals, The Raven Chronicles, The Floating Bridge, Shark Reef Literary Magazine, as well as magazines, Rewire Me, The Rebelle Society, and others. Her poetry has been anthologized in Silent Applause of Butterflies (Columbia Center for the Arts, 2014), and in the book, Delirious—A Tribute to Prince (Night Ballet Press, 2016). Cooper is the creator and editor of The Yes Book (Exult Road, 2014). Cooper served as the Executive Director of a Buddhist publishing house for years, and as a consultant to dozens of publishers nationwide. She is currently working on a book-length collection of poems about the happenings of bliss.
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