In unfiltered sunlight
on the meadow,
goldfinches going green
and goldenrod
doing the opposite,
water high
and cattails
that bow and wave
at September’s arrival —
here’s where it hides,
the closest thing
to content I’ve known.

Once he said
I cried the moon
to light a way
home in the night.
Now he says
this stillness
is a sickness
and that I’ve grown old —
and so all these stories
are for someone else.

Too much has been given.
Union means one —
this body,
unfettered and alone,
wind and bone —
seeking time’s balance.
And maybe
if we dig in our heels,
we can slow it.

We ride different currents.
And my feet
still roll across the ground,
heel to toe.
An egret wings over
the folded, golden fields —
and has there ever
been anything so clear
as a white bird
on a blue sky?

I drink in
his slow wingbeats.
And I’m sorry for this —
that I will never know
the world
from his view.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

One response to “Egret”

  1. Lindy Lee says :

    Pleasant, peaceful thoughts with a hint of melancholy & regret; really nice writing…

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