Poem du jour

Trees in High Wind

As if the undersides of leaves were fish, and the fish silver
like mist or moon and leaves were moving faster
than your eye could catch. As if something was floating,
risiing to the surface, soon to be discovered -
the names of horses streaming as they galloped
through weed that rippled rising in a green river.
As if the past were leaves and leaving and the still window
were still, and leaves were skin, and your skin younger.
As if your eyes half closed and the slit of light got brighter,
caught in liquid glass, flicking towards amber.
As if this blaze of white on grass were more than clover
and blue an unseen cloud, and cloud already half over -
the whole valley a green sea and the waves churning
and you a child in rough weather shouting louder and louder
as you sail into leaves and come to no land ever.

Susan Wicks