By Elizabeth Willis
This is the way water
thinks about the desert.
The way the thought of water
gives you something
to stumble on. A ghost river.
A sentence trailing off
toward lower ground.
A finger pointing
at the rest of the show.
I wanted to read it.
I wanted to write a poem
and call it "Ephemeral Stream"
and dedicate it to you
because you made of this
imaginary creek
a hole so deep
it looked like a green eye
taking in the storm,
a poem interrupted
by forgiveness.
It's not over yet.
A dream can spend
all night fighting off
the morning. Let me
start again. A stream
may be a branch or a beck,
a crick or kill or lick,
a syke, a runnel. It pours
through a corridor. The door
is open. The keys
are on the dashboard.
--------
On Saturday, we went to visit Paul's parents in Hanover. My mother-in-law had a brief stay in the hospital last week, but (knock wood) it looks like her health situation is much better now! We watched the UConn-Ohio State game, had pizza and birthday cake, and brought her a Kindle for Chanukah so she can get online with her feet up.
When we got home, we were in the mood for A Mighty Wind, which remains a complete delight (and I unironically adore the music). Then I watched Tangled with Cheryl long distance because we'd never seen it and that seemed like a good way to end a couple of days of birthday celebrating, along with Chris Hemsworth on SNL now!
No comments:
Post a Comment