Friday, June 30, 2017

A Fountain (Day 163)


A fountain lingers
in a square where
one small, bronzed girl 
catches drops on her
slender fingers, 
where they glisten
in the slow, dry heat 
of noon, imaginary diamonds
set in tiny golden rings.
Birds swoop and dive, but 
summer saunters, hips 
swaying to the music 
in her head, the dour sirens 
banished with one vigorous 
shake of spring 
blossoms, petals falling to 
the sidewalk, like a sweetheart’s 
secret laugh. 
Nearby, on a dappled bench, 
an aging woman dreams of songs 
she used to sing, 
of willow roots submerged 
by rising creeks, 
and mud-encrusted cowboy boots 
on  sawdust-sprinkled floors. 
Poetry flutters behind her 
eyelids, toy boats twirl 
among the clouds 
reflected on the water’s 
surface, and 
the first cicada whirs,
one long note, old and strange.


(c) 2017, by Hannah Six



(Note: I cannot take credit for this lovely fountain image, which I played with a little to heighten the mood. Sadly, I've been unable to locate the proper source for attribution.)