Poem of the Month
Not so much the reflection of Narcissus.
Perhaps he drowned in the Yakima, though they say pond.
A still place—better for preening.
To kneel and mull over the state of your past, present, and future.
Is there anything for distraction?
A new gold record set for the discus, or perhaps the pole vault?
A tenth of a second cut from the marathon record by those who train their bodies to go for a second, a third, a fourth wind?
We grow into our skeletons as these toiling waters carve rocks.
Finally erosion becomes river-bottom, a sandy mud filled with milfoil.
The one who tried to touch a mirror called water drowned.
According to legend the would-be seer must look up to the world and not down.
Yet the grouse rises up only to land a short distance away.
Go reconcile your age at the intersection of self-love and self-death.