[Memory: like dew]
Memory: like dew
(of you my son)
on spider’s silk,
The leaving of sun
on the pond’s surface.
The still waters.
The stillness of my memory
for you my son.
break birds’ flight
to moss on stone
examine the simplicity of their makeup:
watch the water drip down the back;
look at the moss drink the dew;
wind blows through the thousand canyons
of its feathers
as easily as it does
through the green silk.
but the complexity in the Woven Child
brings you to divine (un)certainty.
How do feathers breed gasps of air?
How does moss anchor to stone?
CARSON SAWYER is a poet and short story writer living in Omaha, Nebraska. He has been published in Common Ground Review and is a gradate of the University of Iowa’s Young Writers’ Workshop.