Cracks in the water
are in the subjective eyes
of lonely-hearted
women like me
whom identify the imperfections
of pollen-coated surfaces
where the still water lies
before June
has made it too hot
for thought and reflection
I can clearly see the ripples,
the wrinkled clarity
where ducks
and water birds
disturb the calm
of a perfect surface
for their babies
mighty splashings
I see the remnants of yesterday
peeking through
and the remains of myself
I will try for tomorrow
recycle hope
and I won't cut my hair
when it outgrows its time
because I love the history
these are the keepers
the dead bits
of myself
Requiem in D Minor
is playing
and I am listening
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