The Melt
December did not call him out
to the creek,
it was a prod from a walking god
whose legs had grown stiff.
The softening stream is smoky,
a recuperating sun is unlocking the frozen,
slivers and floes jostle to be one
with the melt and miasma.
He watched water rats playing tag
with each other’s tails.
He had argued with her
and was kicking around a grievance.
Peevishly he lobed small stones
at the rats;
they dived into the banks for cover
but soon come out again
to enjoy the spate of the stream.
Water rats seem immune to
prolonged caution and fear,
maybe they are as forgetful as goldfish
or simply habituated to risk.
It was then that he knew
that he had to go home and apologize,
mend what was broken, hold her close
until she melted and flowed again.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2020
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