Slithering and slicing, moon-face mirroring,
bubbling, inviting secrets, whispering;
tell me: if I follow, how far will you take me?
Backward, there, or forward? To, or from, destiny?
Earth-gathered sky sorrows, what breath here, escaping,
breathes life here, tomorrow, at your end, cascading?
Warbling brook, calling: for whom do you beckon?
Meandering, gnawing at the earth’s mouth, silted.
Sharpened boulders jutting out around your ford like teeth,
riffled swirling cutting mossy emerald green;
will you sweep me away as you have done here, through,
when the clouds tire of rain, and tides rise from sky blue?
Tell me, if I follow, how far will you take me?
Backward, there, or forward? To, or from, destiny?
About the Creator
Sara Wynn
Poetry is my language, and Earth is my playground.
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Second Tuesday of November
No one knew how the event really started. Between a few beverages at the bar, maybe? Notes passed carefully on the street? Or, perhaps a secret meetup at early hours of the day? Whatever the root source was, we were here now on the second Tuesday of November. Nervous, but also absorbed by the allure.
By Elizabeth Petit3 days ago in Fiction
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