“I think he’ll be to Rome as is the Osprey to the fish...." Shakespeare
And from above the timberline
the pond lay open like a hand
to offer all it had.
And patterns in the silt baked
by the sun, became coarse rope knotted into a net, then draped
along the shore line.
And returning to this place
of the towering pine,
whose reservoir of color
had drained back into the earth,
the air was different with promise.
And I, for once, no longer carried sorrow beneath my arched wing.
And the two, together, at the water’s edge hopeful like children, cast all they were into the trembling water--
needing to gather something into themselves, something other than what they had.
And I ask this: Were we there for the fish or something more?
By: Evelyn Augusto
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 11:57 AM UTC
“I think he’ll be to Rome as is the Osprey to the fish...." Shakespeare
And from above the timberline
the pond lay open like a hand
to offer all it had.
And patterns in the silt baked
by the sun, became coarse rope knotted into a net, then draped
along the shore line.
And returning to this place
of the towering pine,
whose reservoir of color
had drained back into the earth,
the air was different with promise.
And I, for once, no longer carried sorrow beneath my arched wing.
And the two, together, at the water’s edge hopeful like children, cast all they were into the trembling water--
needing to gather something into themselves, something other than what they had.
And I ask this: Were we there for the fish or something more?
By: Evelyn Augusto
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