Around each glittering loop
of that chill treble brook
above Lake Isabelle,
gingerly, we’d balance
from one rock to the next,
staggering when their blades
dented the tender cups
of our bare feet, but
welcoming that pain.
I think we needed it
to help us feel the world
enough, to be complete.
Back then, the snow-melt’s hurt
was luxury, like salt,
before our children came-
we fell all the way in-
and the world put us to work.
We’d follow each haphazard
instruction of the brook,
lingering on the shelves
where it relaxed, shilly-shallying
in laps of red-gold gravel,
dangling our feet
until we’d lost all track
of where our feet had been
though we could see them in there,
swollen and white, still clear,
silly among the stones.
We gazed in. The clock
of the water was so pure
you couldn’t have told it was there
except in the interior
the stones throbbing together
all deepened color, it was always
a slightly later time
of day. We gazed down in
as if for something missing,
gazed into the world
where we were wading.
Wading
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