People with ponds in their backyards

often have quiet houses with tight windows.

I wonder if you have standing water?

There are twisted lists I could present,

On a picnic table, in the sun, but the

farther we get from the warm October

day surrounded by confidential pines

The harder it becomes to dig deep down

And find the folded paper tucked in

My long moist pocket.

He used to go to her house for the water.

The hot Ohio sun turned the pine needles

into puddles of mayfly nests, floating

to the edges, always seemingly calm.

It was an almighty sun that offered

cruel lyrics, howls, to the present. The

pines watched the drama passively and

exhaled sap, whispers, some shade.

The days have turned tired gray. You

run away from water, you head west,

toward the border, the towns from before,

I see you outside your body, driving, not

thinking about intersecting choices. I see

you watching the tall trees, not individually but

 as clusters across farmless fields.

I don’t defend myself well. I instead

walk steadily into the murky warm water

as if walking into urine.  I hear you call

for me from the porch but your voice

projects from the pines, causing cones

to rattle in fear at what I might do next.

I thought you said, “It’s lucky to have

the meadow, the grind, that starling” but

now I’m not so sure.

 

image: Lori Morgan Flood

 

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