|Jan/Feb 2012 Poetry|
What were you seeking when the door
held by one hinge
Came loose, and toppled to the floor?
What of the fringe
Of scattered bricks? Yet still it stands,
near the far edge
Of the woods. The pump's iron bands
grip the stone ledge.
Where the playground was, not a trace
of footsteps now.
Only the drifts of Queen Anne's lace
curtsy and bow.
Everything else you see is up
and far beyond
Your progress here. A tiny cup
of jelly on
A stepping stone, a trailing path
of silver lines—
What lies above your humble graph?
The ribbons shine
But you have nothing to explain,
nor to pursue,
Acknowledging no higher aim
than drops of dew.