A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
It’s always the waves I hear,
the lapping of the lake
at Walloon— perhaps the first sound
my young memory held,
before the kingfishers’,
the terns’ bolting splash to grab
the minnows in their purling midst.
But the waves rippling,
their swish and tickles at our feet
when we were three, four
and grown-up five,
these waves evolved, devolved—
even now, revolve in my thoughts
to the roaring ghosts of white-cap
blues, as after a ghastly storm
they’ll choose to slam
tossed and shorn cedar trunks,
or twisted, despairing, pine limbs
onto lonely, whiplashed grass.
It is always the waves I hear—
my childhood, before the turns.
Copyright 2018 Judith A. Brice.