The Problem of Sentences — by Linda Gregg

A sentence is an idea. An idea with urgency.
A feeling for the sun before it rises.
The imagination loves the wall of a building,
loves the floor and the square window
that looks out on it. The scent of jasmine
is how the plant climbs up the wall
built by the Knights of Rhodes.
But the sentence stresses the meaning,
making us notice an unruly jasmine against
the orderly stone wall. We say our bus
went down through the village of the insane,
or that the eucalyptus trees were tall.
That we saw a man dragging a big branch.
The sun will return whether you smile or cry,
clap or burn candles. But when I say whether,
the sentence may be thinking, Even so.