by Nathan Breck

Created on: August 14, 2009

This brink of being beckons me,

For, well, more of because,

My feet are yet unwetted,

And want a dabble of water.

My feet want the water,

My hands do not: what snakes,

What apostraphizing deadwood

May post itself, a sentinel,

To ward off a passing traveller, or writer,

And say, "Here is the lake, the courage

To enter which you lack, and shall not go:

Shall not swim in the water, but stay

Edgewise, on the shore of the crater

Where my roots once plowed the soil."

So on the sand, the pebbles: indeed the soil

Full of furrowed frogs, I forget my course

Into the lake, and continue on my linger.

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