O you marvelous    maker of music
whose succulent Spanish    celebrated all
the ten thousand    thousand things
of our timeworn world    when you wrote
open-hearted    odes: knowing
songs on such small    and strange objects
as piscine scissors,    soft woolly socks,
y perro y gato,    plato y pan.
             Neruda, you never    knew a thing
you didn’t like.    Dutiful diviner of
unsettled sorrow    shaped as a guitar.
Childlike, you    charmed us, cataloging
joy in this or that    thingamajig; ever
weighing our wants    finding them wanting.
O wooer of wonder    what should we do?
Teach us,    the terrible materialists
to answer life’s    appetites with awe.
For nothing is simply    nominal. No,
a cache of love    is kept in common things.

Originally published in Chautauqua Literary Review