Quam magnus numerus Libyssae harenae lasarpiciferis iacet Cyrenis —Catullus 7
Consider silphium, extinguished flower, Kin to the wild carrot, Queen Anne’s lace, Fennel and dill, and rooted now no place On earth, that once was worth an empress’ dower, A Caesar’s ransom. Silphium was power Stored in Rome’s coffers, stamped upon the face Of silver tetradrachms, a thing to base The wealth of nations on. Now past its hour, Stamped out, its numbers harvested to zero, What properties, what cures were in an ounce Are lost to us—mere footnote to the pleasure Out of a poem—“kisses without measure.” The last stalk ever found, Pliny recounts, Presented as a rarity to Nero.
The myths and folklore of traditional people the world over are replete with descriptions . . . of refugia, the inviolable strongholds of animals and plants of which the storyteller and her people steer clear . . . missing only the human, and holding out the promise of a less tumultuous future. —Barry Lopez, Home Ground
The sparrow is an opened book, an angel
parted down the breast, head turned to the side so one black eye can search the stippled sky
