Friday, December 23, 2005

And sometimes it feels like this

Near the stream

Fieldstone and damp mortar needing repointing,
the time long past when you’d throw a penny
in and wish I was yours to pull out from the
deep cool water, the lonely dark well.

Fish are more skittish than I, fast as I was baited
and hooked as I am with your need and mine, now I’m
thrashing it out, running it out as if I’m free of all
you’ve given or taken, all I’ve asked for and failed
to speak to the well-shadow where our wishes sank like
pennies to the silty bottom, glowing dim embers under
muddy ash, I rush to snap that line then stop tied
as it is to our hearts.

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