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| from "From the Sea," by Deb Schwedhelm |
Days pass like water through a sluice:
shallow, almost still, merciful
in their transparency. The past spreads
its murk, its soft living matter
across the felt floor of the deep,
where fish abandon their luminous
appearances. The future is no different
except for the newness of things,
how the sun ignites surfaces,
how rain deepens aquatic lives
and sends frogs bellowing their love
into summer, ugly as anyone
who has emerged from their first
small form into unfamiliar longing.
***
David Winter wrote the poetry chapbook Safe House, where this poem first appeared in print. His poetry has also appeared in the literary magazines Four Way Review, Forklift, Ohio, Harpur Palate, Meridian, Muzzle, Ninth Letter, The Offing, and Winter Tangerine Review. He is currently a Senior Lecturer in the Ohio State University Department of English, where he also earned his MFA, served as Poetry Editor of The Journal, and worked extensively with the Literacy Narratives of Black Columbus Project. He is a curator for Paging Columbus, a literary event series.
David’s chapbook Safe House is available from Thrush Press here. And you can read more of his writing here.
[Image above by Deb Schwedhelm]
