By Glen Wilson
I swear I saw her, more detailed than shadow,
as if tangible yet out of reach,
a flash of ankle fleeting by gnarled roots, trellis posts
and individual stakes,
as if her steps waltzed amongst the windfall apples,
pressing none yet leaving a clear desire path.
Her song flits in with birdcall, descants twitter
and disappear after the hearing. I called out
once and heard my voice for the first time,
keening for all its worth, answer and echo.
I only call you by the name I’ve given you,
maybe that’s why you haven’t answered?
But why else are you here
and why do I search for you?
For I’ve given chase to a gasp many times,
spent and bent over as sunset trickles over the orchard.
And I tell myself it was a dream, a reverie,
a tired trick of the mind,
and I keep doing that for it is lodged
like a seed always promising fruit.
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