Watersong

When I spend a long time fishing alone,
            the brook begins to sing
    as if a cemetery of souls in the stones
            were rising in a ring
    around me, like a hatch of mayflies,
    exulting, then fleeing into the woods.

Why insects are so small is not surprising:
            fact is they have no bones.
    What do they make of the moon's rising
            in the firs like an orange stone?
    Don't my boots and my two small eyes
    trespass on their livelihood?

In our last home we're all alone.
            Some fear forever; some sing.
    What's piously carved in the granite stones
            is a joke. Amoral surroundings,
    suns swarm and sink in the western skies
    without being evil or doing good.

Copyright © 2006 F. D. Reeve All rights reserved
from Carquinez Poetry Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission