The Pond’s Weird Sounds

A thin lid of ice held down the waves
But was just that thick you could skip stones,
Small ones, as if you meant to curl them,

Out on the shield for quite a long way
And hear the weird, sad ring the waves made.
(Yes, we know. Weird to you. Sad to you.)

Give the stone a flick to make it spin
And the ice would shrill and cry, half scream.
Two sad teens on the shore played to win.

Talk to the Dead Who Drift In

Straw huts for the rains

And winds to pull down,

The tales are what’s left

On this side of town.

Sit still. Knit your brows.

Don’t you dare touch those.

The words you can pick,

But not the whole rows.

Just wait by the creek.

Just sit on this rock.

Give the dead the choice

To blow through to talk.

So I did. I sat

And wrote my own lines.

When the ghosts came by,

Each one sobbed, That’s mine.

Let’s First Take a Look at the Text

All night, the winds foamed waves to ice
That lined the shore at dawn with white.

Those lines of ice, of waves in ice,
Stood up like herds posed poised for flight,

As if all waves were of two minds.
Points shaped like waves yet still as mice.

Then, come the sun, waves rolled the dice
And wet themselves in warm bright fright.

What’s left of all wind’s works of night?
A few bones shine. Light words. Now write.

The Wood-Worm

The bread rose as the house
Washed down hill with the flood
And the rocks and the mud.

That’s the way that it goes,
Some things calm, some things rushed.
What you know is it goes.

Had the house held, the flood
Not broke, the bread been sliced,
Some left would have grown stale

And grown mold, the wood-worm,
Warm in the beams, would gnaw
For years. The house would fall.

To Be As Though They Had Not Been

The first lives, first cells, made a fist
To swap goods, solve their needs and fights,
But could not quite pull off the trick.
They’d have to make some kind of deal,
To share the wealth and keep this thing
Of theirs, this life. What could they do?
To live meant more than just to be.
To live meant to eat and to grow.

The first cell with a sort of pulse
Showed the way. If life had to grow,
Then life could not stop at a place,
But what if life could stop in time?
You could split and some splits could end,
Not all. Would that work? Well, not quite.
What if what was grieved life lost? Deal.
Death is as if life had not been.

How True They Trimmed the Well of Stone

How black the depths that were not wet,
Had not been wet in an age. Damp,
Yes, but not wet, much less a well

From which you could draw cups to drink.
But it still looked just like a well,
It was built so well of cut stone,

By those who lived near here and cut
Down the trees so they could plant wheat
In that gone age when they got here.

Know what their well is full of now?
Genes, seeds, burnt grains, dust—all the stuff
Of lives when the lives are long lost—

A few bone shards. A lot of dark.
They came, cut down. They sowed. They reaped.
How true they trimmed their well of stone.

They Did

The world made us to each make our own world.
We made our gods, and each god makes an us.
Which us are you? What’s it like in your world?

If you would like to know how this world goes,
You can, but not if you don’t ask, and not
Past the points where it comes to join your own.

As for the gods in it, they’re yours, your ghosts,
Your names you’ve learned or coined for each of them,
Your faith that they made you who makes your world.