Today's poem is by Michael Hettich


We could wade from that island into clear ocean
for hundreds of yards before the water
was even up to our knees.
We could sit there and watch small birds, and vultures
so high they hardly seemed to move.
We could walk out even further, to where the sand dropped off,
where the water was dark, and muscular—
and we could push ourselves out into that dark deep
full of the ghosts of huge fish we feared
were fished out now, even while we shivered
with the fear of being watched from below.
We could reach a sand bar, almost out of sight.
We could stay out until dusk and swim back through the dark.
Or rain could start to fall, so hard we couldn’t hear
each other, or ourselves. And sea birds, gulls and pelicans,
cormorants, terns, anhingas—could float
to that sand bar to wait out the rain. They could be
close enough to touch, all around us. And when the rain
stopped abruptly, they could take off
in a burst, all directions. The water would feel cold
as we swam back, and the surface we swam through
would be fresh enough to drink. And it would smell of flowers.

Copyright © 2004 Michael Hettich All rights reserved
from The Eleventh Muse
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

Support Verse Daily
Sponsor Verse Daily!

Home    Archives   Web Monthly Features    About Verse Daily   FAQs  Submit to Verse Daily   Publications Noted & Received  

Copyright © 2002, 2003, 2004 Verse Daily All Rights Reserved