climbing under

 

this fog awash

in hindering

(eyes slowly blink, lean forward over the edge )

 

and suddenly I’m reaching for your hand

to pull me up out of the drink.

 

the peace here is deadly.

it’s quiet and moves leisurely,

particles drifting around,

tiny bubbles on my arms,

my hair floats and waves,

a slow motion dance.

 

I can see you above the surface,

looking down, and the “what now” expression is daunting,

each moment the window ripples you with movement

playing tricks on me,

for I know you are not the shape that this

undulating carnival mirror expresses.

I know you are there, as you always have been,

that “what’s up” stern caring look, searching for an answer for me.

 

but my hand won’t reach

and I’m running out of air.

this tide too strong,

the current lulling me into the murky moss,

amongst the drenched leaves and green bloated twigs.

the still of space,

the silence is making me sleepy,

like a lullaby I sang to my son so he would drift off

in my arms.

 

 and I have never been this calm, this scared.

Reviews

[Heather Angelika Dooley]

Ah, once again, ditto to my last comment.