The Endge

The E(n)dge


I leave damp mudprints 
there where I met the shore.

The dragonflies' dances,
the goslings scrammed,
and I for now (or 'lo, for once)
exhaled.  Edges do that.

A turtle somewhere spied me
not spying a frog; quick to leap.
And splash!  My eyes follow my ears.
A biped clown, here at a threshold.
A stronghold of thrushes.
And red-winged blackbirds...
briefly visiting tufts and reeds.

When I go I think it likely
no memory of me will remain
no indication, no story, no song.
But where my callous kissed
the muck.

Invert puddlings, concentric whorls.
A fish somewhere, like I, 
determined to visit an edge.
Marks with its 'foot'prints,
lips breaking the tension,
A visit to the start of Sky...
now gone.

We each leave our prints.
We leave each other's
memories,
in time.

Copyright © Stephe Watson | Year Posted 2018