Light contracts
and expands as clouds glove
then unglove the
sun.
I see you there across
the lake from me
wearing a white sleeveless
dress.
When the sun is
ungloved you glow like a pearl.
On your side, the
lake reflects a city of glass.
My side reflects
cottonwood trees,
scudding clouds,
the narrow road that delivered me here.
A moment a go, I
watched you break the water’s surface
with just a
single finger.
The entire the
city shivered when you touched it.
And I swear I felt
you, too.
A ripple quivered
through the earth under my feet
and tickled up
through me.
—Mitchell Hegman
Hmmm... I had to read it several times to understand it and a couple more to find why it didn't work (for me at least). The last three lines shift the focus from the other side to you - not sure that works the way I want it to work, but then I don't have a suggestion either.
ReplyDeleteThank you for an honest assessment. A thoughtful one at that! I appreciate what you are saying. Maybe a stanza to provide a point of transition. Hmmmm. Must give this thought. Poems are difficult.
ReplyDelete