Sunday, December 15, 2013

On Waking (Poem 257)

There, just beyond the shadows' 
edge, fleeting silver 
and gold, skimming like sand 
through my fingers    trying 
will get me nowhere

It's the  not  trying, the skipping
stones, sliding through sideways
that nets the fish, cold 
and iridescent and rolling in 
the shallow water 

until, with a sigh, 
I release it    onto the page 
or back into the indigo depths 
from which it came, tail shimmering
until it vanishes from sight

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six