A Future That Resembles Now

In a continuum of clean sheets
and white nights
I sleep with my watch
secure on my wrist
and balance on the year’s narrow edge.

I know some small things:
the first frost sweetens
the second kills.

In my secret world, light
shines like dandelions
gone to seed in a moonscape
and a single tree
draws me to the ferny
underbelly of woods.

As birds wing in old departures
I’m ambushed by petals,
leaf mold, earth crust
and a shock of sky.

In a future that resembles now
I learn to pat death
like a dog, it's growing
so familiar. When I pick flowers
they root in my palm, tendrils
lace through fingers.

Long after they fade
I’m wrapped in their silk
as I rest in the tall grass
absolutely still
like a stone warmed by the sun
denting the earth.

Ruth Daigon | Mudlark No. 25
Contents | Storied Lives