White Giraffes



We are all white giraffes, fragile things
rarely seen, craning into the Masai
sunrise; sucking a fragrant hard balm
from the fruit of acacia trees. The comfort
of mimosa wrapped on the rough
groove of tongues. Over the speckled ocean,
spouts circle the oasis; ostriches
at their mating dance. They seem to lean,
to pull scrub, sky into the thin
horizon line. Herd memory floods
out into the blood. We walk with long
legs over the wide plains, and drink,
and sing.

Marguerite Doyle

If you have any thoughts on this poem,  Marguerite Doyle would be pleased to hear them.