This
poem is a wire
on which, if I could, I would string the sun
that now sits low and red
filtering through trees across the slough.If I could I would catch
the effortless song of my daughter,
who searches the bank behind me through the tall grass.
I would hold it up and watch
it tremble beautifully in the red light,
threaded on the string of words I carry with me.
I would wait, as I am now
waiting --
watching the water smooth out near my feet
in the still air of evening --
for the tug of something unseen
that has always been
beneath everything, which pulls with a quick quiver.
I would reel it in carefully --
aware the link of words to what we know
but cannot see
is fragile --
pulling it until a smooth,
slick flash appears
from below.
And once it flops on the
bank,
and I assemble it with the rest,
I would bring it all to you,
strung on my sometimes foolish, sometimes graceful words,
an offering to you who gather
where you do not fish.
It is my prayer this will
be enough
as I sit by the water
with hook baited
desiring something smooth and deep.
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