At Blackthorn Pond

By Neil Flatman 

Late sun longing through the knuckles of the blackthorns

by the pond; a languorous spark. The copper heads of ferns

bow down with what remaining dignity they hold. Autumn’s

flown; longer days dissolved fast as a winter breath. Surely

that’s the memory, real or not, you searched for in the book

of all the wonder the world’s too broken to contain. I know

too many synonyms for longing. Can’t tell you how many

times I’ve had to pull up roots. Repeat the season ’til it cracks

until it can’t say what it is, just what it wants.

This story originally appeared in Stonecoast Review Issue 18.

Photo by Maddy Baker.