John Anderson Poet Lyric

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The Art of Under Over

With the art of under over,
footprints circle back,
to the gate left standing open.
Its latch polished smooth—
As I sharpen my key once again
the blade is now worn 
to paper thin.

A map covers the desk.
Mountains are creases.
Rivers arch through meadows.
The valleys cast long shadows
reaching out well beyond
the dreams they sprang from.

One flower looked right.
Another hid behind its petals.
The bouquet grew to become bloated.
The vase overflowed with stems—
there was no room left 
to wade in the water.

The boat left too late—
while one eye was searching distant shores,
another feared the rising seas.
Strong arms rowed out beyond the harbour
as the daylight quietly 
ebbed the tide away.

One smooth stone will skip,
from a practised wrist's keen flick;
to then, sink down contentedly.
The steady hand knows when
it's right to let go,
leaving the cleanest ripples below.

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