The Wordsworth Papers
still glides the Stream�� and in its gliding
������������� ever the same�� remains
she was eighteen
when we met by the river
her black hair
moving with the breeze
at her shoulders
when I move
in pace with the constant stream
stillness
walking and searching
my head this way and that
through busy streets
hoping to catch a glimpse
to meet by accident
a glimmer
the smallness of these hands
cupping water
paul t conneally & debra woolard bender
