beneath the moss
that cleaves to the mountain
a spring unwinds like a dark wound,
stirred thick with blue -
white as brides, the clouds lift
their trains, hasten to some unseen
reaches the pond
with her bracelet of eggs
and begins dropping them in, one
Return to the front page of this issue:
3, No. 1 Spring
& Summer 2004
Go to the
Poets & Authors page for the poet's
biographical sketch and email link.
These poems are Copyright © 2004 by Sarah Sloat.