POETRY
By Neil Flatman
Late sun longing through the knuckles of the blackthorns
by the pond; a languorous spark. The copper heads of ferns
bow down with what remaining dignity they hold. Autumn’s
flown; longer days dissolved fast as a winter breath. Surely
that’s the memory, real or not, you searched for in the book
of all the wonder the world’s too broken to contain. I know
too many synonyms for longing. Can’t tell you how many
times I’ve had to pull up roots. Repeat the season ’til it cracks
until it can’t say what it is, just what it wants.
This story originally appeared in Stonecoast Review Issue 18.
Photo by Maddy Baker.