a poem by Stephanie Sears

Around us the bedtime tale of a village

roof thatched and combed

by sprig fencing,

the parting of a path sprinkled

for punctilious cotton feet

turning the ruff heads

of Bonzai peonies

in the sharpened dusk

of black and white celluloid,

etched with nostalgia

of a recapitulated past

declaring polite defeat

while the frothing wave

of a returning tide unfurls,

wistful banner

on the night’s samite breath.

We sit bare-minded

in deadly black

by a brook faking a cascade

under the eyeball of the moon

projecting a mess of trees

clawed and toothed

to guard contemplation.

We slip into absence and

mutual irrelevance,

confusing ourselves

with a perpetuity

by beauty bound:

frogs to the rustling stream,

crows hatched by shadow,

leaves breaking spring’s shield,

shiver on a glimpse of insight.

A small crystal space

incubating between the lungs

has begun to dissolve

the last shreds of piety.

A scintillation blurs boundaries.

A stone’s throw from an epicenter

as close as fear

of blanking out. But then

we resorb into pebbles

throwing ourselves back

with hard twin plops

Into water’s footnote.

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