In the hollow of my hand, a pool is born
of an April downpour, the sudden flood
filling every crevice of pinkish skin,
the lines of life and heart and mind engulfed,
a breeze etching the surface with ripples
that push against shores of padded flesh
around the palm, some overflowing the bank,
others sliding back toward the deep center,
the wrinkles on the bottom of the pool
brightening, as the rain that fell so fast
passes, and sunlight pierces the water
settling at the end of my outstretched arm.
Greetings from Manhattan. When March ends, and the last few patches of snow melt from the yards, and ice disappears from the ponds, those of us who live along the coast shed our heavy coats and head for the shore. Here is the poem “Orient Point,” from my 2008 collection, Father of Water.
Greetings from Manhattan. Walking and poetry are both rhythmic activities that I have tried, in several poems, to bring together to create a unified effect. Here is “A Couple” from my 2010 poetry collection, Brief Intervals of Harmony.
