A Crack in the Lens

If we love each leaf, each
small animal, the rind, the seed,
the flesh of fruit,
then hidden in the basketry of shadows
could it be you, could it be me,
could it be anyone.

If father is fish
mother is water,
we hear with our eyes,
see with our skin
and listen to visible echoes,
why do we long for temporal magic.

If incompleteness is all we have
and time is a crack in the lens,
let us settle for urban grit,
astral dust and spend the hours
searching for hawthorn berries
to soothe the heart.

Ruth Daigon | Mudlark No. 25
Contents | In My Body of Skin