Let me never not look up again — But here, right now, The lake-sand is blue in the clouded midday grey-sky and the broken reeds are quick and sharp — I must pick my way through them. So, I step slow, and Images in the corner of my eye are dreamy, and True as true — Pale wood regurgitated by moody Neptune, which Art (she belongs not to Greeks or Romans) took into her hands and twisted and polished until it gleamed like silver: horses’ heads and back-bending aquatic things no eye has seen — I’ve seen them in my mind, though, where it is too deep and dark for science to reach, also — those grandchildren of dryads and nymphs: petrified myth. If I look up now, it will break the spell. And now it not the time to do so. In a minute, or an hour; two…a year? There will be a time. But it is not here. April 27, 2023, 1110 Jaimie Krycho Written outside Loyal Coffee, reflecting on a lakeside search(for Chris’s lost lens cap)-turned-poetry walk on a cool spring day
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