The beginning of wisdom is to call things by their proper name.
—Confucius
Sun knotted
low, shooting June
rays across cove.
We speak of water,
sky. Sun unfurling
upon lake—silver
trail so spangled
Sarah nearly steps
from dock to
water. This phenomenon
of water-light laid
across breeze-tussled
cove was named
by a Soviet scientist:
The path to happiness.
Does the naming
of a thing make it
more or less
mysterious? What
might we lose
if the two of us
forgot names, definitions,
taxonomies, the lessons
of Linnaeus, and just
walk upon water?
