I sit tossed

I sit, tossed,
sinking stones in the pale creek light.
You can look
quick and sharp.
Almost jostling, even more red
into river dreams and
I recall a carved away wooden saint whose book I did not read.
And what about Vega or the shape of things to ponder.
“Did you know them?” they say.
Effervescent reciprocity, spirits co-mingle in blank
sober thin tight wires and resonate a perfect pitch
upon miracles nearly kissed in a black.
But winter has no need as we pass
but still I should run away with a clock
whose arms persist like too much wind
and as I blow and my memories unravel
to a softer time, comforted by my Dad’s arms, rocking in a chair by the window.

© Kevin S. Freeman