A Fallen Tree, Bearing Moss Ruddy in its armor, scales loosen and fall. Like a claw, reaching, diurnal, a hawk, roots draw outward, in hunger. There is no touch, but you, and I, only in air, closing the circle. There is no word, but, you, and I, in the haze of indifferent sun.
Invisible Swans Blooming in the white of hours -- a closing among reeds, curled, heads falling. A gray cloud of signets huddles, in ripples, guessing at a flood. They vanish, as you do, distant from the shore, flash of fading light.
Summer Rustic What I take with me to the bog is something silent, and fearless. Lily pads gloss the surface, creating green night, endless for delegates of the floor. What comes to rushing, but fish, and frogs, and water snakes, all touching a circuit. Here flows the real courage. Here flows the utterance lacking ornament.
Meg Smith is a writer, journalist, dancer and events producer living in Lowell, Mass. USA. Her poetry and fiction have recently appeared in The Cafe Review, Muddy River Poetry Review, Beliveau Review, Dark Moon Digest, Sirens Call eZine, and many more. She is author of five poetry books and a short fiction collection, The Plague Confessor.