White Sun Waterwheel
March 24th, 2007
White sun like a white bruise
behind the snow-sky skin.
Snow in cross-currents
arabesquing my vision.
I want to rise up and ride
the great pale mother’s curve of it
all the way down behind the black ocean line,
like a seagull embracing
a hot-air balloon.
I’ll emerge from the other side:
a frog clinging to the bucket
of an old wooden waterwheel,
blinking dry my tiny eyes,
jumping off in alarm,
& just as suddenly wondering
if I can climb back inside.
