you call it when one goes on this long.
But it has to, doesn’t it, end?
Didn’t the days you splashed through?
The nights you crawled a waning moon?
Didn’t the poppies steam and fume,
the heron stalk the weedy shallows?
Didn’t the greedy bee at the throat
of the gilded lily gorge?
Happy to have appeared in Ravens Perch previously along with such places as: Able Muse, The American Journal of Poetry, The Chicago Review, Cortland Review, The Formalist, Light, The Nation, The New York Quarterly, Passager, Poetry, Rattle and on the Writer’s Almanac.
