We nudged the shore with bare toes
while a flock of swans glided past, wind-
ruffled necks arched in perpetual query.
We had no answers, sitting on the bank,
legs tucked under us. Sunlight glinted
off the waves, stretching skyward
as the afternoon passed into silence,
settling in our cells for safe-keeping.

On a distant day grown hectic with storms,
a detail will emerge —white birds skimming
silver water, the scent of olive leaves bruised
between our fingers—and catch us off-guard,
startled by the ease with which the past
reassembles: bid it come here and it does.  

__________________________________________________________

Cheryl Snell has new work in Whistling Shade, Softblow, Snow Monkey, Ghoti and other journals. The author of two chapbooks of poetry, Flower Half Blown (Finishing Line Press, 2002) and Epithalamion (Little Poem Press, 2004), she is a two time Pushcart Prize nominee.
E-mail: cherylsnell at hotmail dot com  

__________________________________________________________

home