hold closely the unwritten book of ancient landscapes
and words
long since forgotten, the droplets of pewter
sky and soil-sweetened mist along the path you stroll
alone, those bird-bright mornings when music swells
like light through a window
hide them well, this collection of shiny trinkets
that caught your raven’s eye
then, when a storm approaches, take them out,
and hold them, one by one, let their weight
lay heavy in your palms, and consider the possibility
that you will not drown in the waves that spin overhead,
tangled in their lace-edged labyrinth of foam,
but glide gently over each crest, sliding easily into
troughs where the blue-diamond sea unfurls,
sun-warmed and smooth as polished stone
© 2020 by Hannah Six
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