Thursday, February 22, 2007


(Some poems live closer to the place I want to go. This one is getting closer, but still not it. It's reassuring, though, finding these cousins. Thanks, Talia, for loaning the book. Thanks, David, for arranging the pile.)

Some friends and I took a path to the woods
where the hawk flew low and left his shadow
unfolding from the muscle of my hand.
In an hour's time I stumbled on stones
and went through the green mantle of the woods.
My boots were fern-covered when I walked
without the weight of my pack across a bridge.
I found my friends sleeping by a pattern of water.
When I went and shook them they disappeared
forever into the figuring currents.

Christine Garren Afterworld

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