Since my death losing was impossible,

impossible as living forever.

You might think it

confining, this well; not so.

Mosquitos hum the air

and spiders drop by.

Someone

lowers and raises the bucket.

The long faces

of horses peer in from the earth.

No problem

about where to go. You’re always

up or down. When you wake

birch leaves

reflect the sky. The stones gather

noon sunlight;

water and space mingle in fluxes

unknown

on the surface.

There you’re between.

A hover-plane lands, then sails

on over.

∞

From the Spring 2013 issue of Inquiring Mind (Vol. 29, No. 2)

© 2013 Carolyn Dille