The Art of Crossing
Somewhere out there on the edge of things,
the young girl crosses a bridge
for the first time, her bare feet marking
a path through the dry dust of summer.
Crossing is the hardest part.
The houses watch; the water says her name.
If she stays straight, nobody sees --
she is a shining clear as glass.
They shade against her; they turn their eyes away.
The girl heads north toward the hills
and climbs to darkened doors
that open cavelike at her touch,
where, for just a while, she is just
a girl who crossed a bridge and climbed
a height before she turned for home.
After crossing bridges and climbing hills is there anymore "just?" Those are the portions of the path that change us from "just" being to being just.
ReplyDeleteI like the form you have written in her Karen, the line breaks seem to me to be perfectly in the right places to make the reader automatically pick up on her heartbeat as she moves along.
Crossing (sure) is the hardest part. Touching as always.
ReplyDeleteHad missed you and Kaye and Joaquin today, Karen.
Nice one Karen - like the water saying her name especially
ReplyDeleteI can see her on the bridge, going up the hill...
ReplyDeleteand she'll have so many bridges to cross as she grows up,
ReplyDeleteVry Meaningful poetry . I like . :)
ReplyDeleteVry Meaningful poetry . I like . :)
ReplyDelete