Poetry

Waterfalls

The pick strikes the ice and shatters the fragments

out into the air. Down they go, hearty lumps,

past my feet as I cling to the side.

 

I stretch up, pick ready, and strike again.

My chest hurts – I’m too eager, I know.

Fragments fly.

 

A routine: pick strike, ice diamonds

pick strike, ice diamonds.

Just frozen water playing rain.

 

So why am I bleeding?

Poetry

Our place

We walk down to the tree shaped like a chair,

years of training to get it just right.

Across the river is the fall

dripping from the woman’s mouth.

This is our spot, this strange location

where magic feels tangible in the air,

and everything is as green and lush

as in our dreams.

You tease and say it is a dream.

Oh, I know that.

I’ve known it for a long time, since you left.

But I still walk here with you.