Night like an empire falls
to the civil reflection
of one twilight pelican
dreamily shadow ghost rafting.
The spirit that once held me up,
my love, remote tears of whisky
seen through a series of still frames
on pixels of wine glass penumbras.
The wind slips in whispers
that ripple the river,
and the last morning after
the night before raindrops
cool, calm and collectedly
bead leaves of lilies,
belying what we know already:
The strains in relief
around all of those lily leaves
bear the same burden
all rain beads are found under.
- Originally published at Bonnie McClellan’s Weblog for Water Under the Bridge: IPM 2015