Language Barrier

By Izzy Braico

I’m not practiced in the art

of calling things by their names,

in stating what is plain, what is true.

No, I prefer to lounge 

in the language of metaphor,

where most things are either borrowed or blue.

Every tree in the park

reaches, desperate for the sky. 

I find that time creeps,

but often it flies.

Every new bit of knowledge

an artifact unearthed.

Every morning I wake early

is a blessing, is rebirth.

So I will try to speak clearly,

not to obscure my words

(but I guess that’s a metaphor, too). 

No, I just don’t know the language

of things as they are

Is this why

I couldn’t understand you?