stealing her white light from the Sun,
lighting its cool, pale fire to hearts
on Earth and attracting emotions like waves
breaking at our feet and distant shores.
This bewitched light that shows your nakedness.
[Allusions here to Shakespeare’s Timon of Athens:
“The sun ’s a thief, and with his great attraction / Robs the vast sea; the moon ’s an arrant thief / And her pale fire she snatches from the sun…”]
Doing what the ancestors did so well.
A different world for my modern steps.
Digital, noisy, manmade surfaces, marked trails, traffic.
But in a still moment – under trees,
beside talking water – an ancient voice whispers.
Water – shallow and muddy – like the present
moment. Then clear and deeper – the past,
but not so long ago. Further back,
clear and so deep, clear no longer
applies. Thick glass. Opaque memory. Droplet moments.
Image Credit: Photo by Skitterphoto. Public Domain via Pixabay
A poem online is like a balloon.
We don’t control the wind or Web.
Two-thirds of Earth (and you) is water,
but never enough to quench our thirst.
Lines of words floating above an ocean.
Sun on the rock riverside holds heat
from the day, water retains cool nights –
the boulder midstream is somewhere in between.
This moment: light as whitewater. This day:
the cold deep eddy behind the boulder.