A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
Will the mist have vanished from the lake by the time you read this?
— birthday note to Charlie from a good friend
What she couldn’t know was your eyes
warm with the June wind, as you watch
the pond’s riffles, listen to them beyond
the call of terns, as they await a sign,
a shimmer, to plummet for perch straight
down through the evening sky. No, she couldn’t
know your unwavering eyes focused
on your book, as your fingers leaf the pages
slowly, steady through your gaze, looking
at the script, then up once more marking
the mist, the pines, the turning call.
Too, she couldn’t feel your evening
touch, tender and close, as you and I sit
entranced by the woodpecker, the primeval
scarlet-crested, pileated one, focused on his suet
oblivious to us, breeze quivering the leaves.
Copyright 2013 Judith Brice. First published in Bear River Review. Included in Vox Populi by permission of the author.