Immortals
The pond is a knot
sweetly tied. We imagine
tadpoles to whales,
believing we are gods.
A sweltering of heat
bends us into willows.
Black-heart horseflies
our mortal enemies,
but not one of us
brave enough to escape
through the mirror
of brown shimmering.
We tote a summer’s
worth of sweat from one
bank to the other; we
mean to bring water.
Somehow we never
remember. As evening
bakes in, thick and slow,
we sit on the ridge
above the pond— black –
birds holding down a wire,
preaching day into night
with the clatter of our tongues.
Indigo Moor
Posted over on Freewebs
Previously published in Tap-Root.
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