Thursday, April 6, 2017

Puddle Mirror Mother: a poem



Puddle mirror,
distorted with wind-breath,
I stir you with my fingers,
fling the droplets air-ward,
rainmaking.
Mother of low places,
I watch, a moment later,
the mosquito larva squirming
at the edges of your mud and rock smile.
Blood will pay for life in the months ahead,
the sunshine drying you into caked wrinkles,
then snowflakes spin around you again,
 cracking stones
fingering into the crevasse and crack
the birth-cry of your own endless

Becoming.

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