Eddy

Against wind's silk direction the tide is flowing,

turning on itself in the lee of salt marsh islands,

spiraling in large and little flowers that empetal

all below. The boat spins slowly and. . .

there'll come a change: yellowtail pulling on the line,

a closing of darkness: but, oh, in nature's matrix

for a few hours you lean neither away

nor toward. . . . Whatever it is you refuse it.

Copyright © 2005 Carol Frost All rights reserved
from Green Mountains Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission