How heavy on its stem my dream
of love seems now, a season of color
fabricating apples out of mindless weather.
It is place as much as memory,
a river where I held everything
in the rushing slenderness of sight.
Her eye was the blue of morning,
dreamt by cold, bright water.
A forgetting of all that contradicts.
A place where the hour narrows
and sands go faster, brighter, as if fated.
A gleam in the wind and in my hand.
Love is denser when it loses this,
smaller as the heart is after fear—
A dull thing that resists,
It feels an undertow that stirs the motes,
bright creatures whirling
toward the cold white sturgeon.
—Published previously in the poet’s most recent book, In the Language
of Lost Light (Poetic Matrix Press, 2021); appears here with her permission.
is a retired attorney who worked for many years with the “Activist” group of poets led by Lawrence Hart and John Hart in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her most recent book is In the Language of Lost Light (Poetic Matrix Press).