This still shaded lake, sorrow
is not mine
anymore now than when
they were a river
eager to reach
any new curl
further down the face
which wept them cold and
clear into life.

In times of wet shadow
silent by the highway growl
the prayers of snapping turtles
in the shallow abyss
secret inside a script
only a few still read:
original darkness,
this still shaded lake, sorrow.

Dragonfly! In the shatter
and reconfiguration
and so
much
loss
please
light on me now.
Make these arms your branches
buoyant on sorrow while
my trunk falls into the muck.
Please
be the jewels
that are not mine
anymore now than when
the weather starts again
after centuries
and you begin to tumble out
these dark open eyes
wet with a lonely talent
to read the prayers
of snapping turtles
this still shaded lake, sorrow.