Moorings
Those things we’re moored to, like the gypsum sands
of Alamogordo, shift within a day
and leave us holding useless maps—the way
still clear in one sense: foot must step, and hands
swing forward toward the present, the demands
of live, and onward. Landmarks slip away
in drifts and dunes; surveyor’s marks decay;
our lots and lines, our walls and massive stands
of trees come down to stump and ash. What’s gone
still trails us like a broken anchor line,
heavy and weightless both, somehow—till one
cold winter, we walk out before first light,
glance up where trees should block the sky, and find
the stars are spinning paths across the night.
Able Muse Write Prize for Poetry, 2018 ▪ Runner-Up
Links:
[1] https://www.ablemuse.com/digital-books-24/v24/digital edition/Complete Digital Version of -/Able Muse, Print Edition (Number 24), Winter 2017