by Karen Kelsay
Where estuary waters seep into
the muddy shore and wet young willow shoots
along the bay, I caught a damselfly
sequestered near a sycamore tree’s roots.
We spoke of rising moons, and how small bands
of stars slip rings of gold around the world
in silent, opalescent sheen that glows,
reflects on watercress — until it’s swirled
above the steady song of cricket feet.
And then, a darker note possessed the air,
while silver branches in the grove began
to echo dirges filled with hushed despair.
Warm Evening spilled her shadowed dreams, and clouds,
with their relentless, monotonic sigh,
spun quietly across the bank — while we,
like sanctified small angels, hovered by.
WILLOWS WEPT REVIEW 