WORK BY ELIZABETH MYHR 
WORK BY ELIZABETH MYHR
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Each partial silver circle of sea glides swiftly in, slows, and stirring at its height, turns, changing to its fading form, and washes out again. That we will go this way, and how, and whether peacefully--- The questions float like a sheen of light, the mad flight of days drops to shore, and tiny speckled pipers track the sand like second hands running and running. A golden circle in the wandering sun. Other questions form and run fair, quiet shells up the sand hill. A crab scuttles back to the surf, is gone, an oarsman at the gates, anxious to return. Whisper, whisper, wash, whisper tossing eternal coins against the sand. Once we were not here, O the rising moon, stepping through soft-invaded mirrors. |