THE SLOW WAKE

A Poem by Cory Zimmerman

The slow wake licking the bank like a hound’s tongue in the midst of autumn. The leaves crisp beyond the reap that was of death orange in their beauty. The breeze carrying secrets all alone. The fowl passing before a few slight shades and the sky’s reflection—a sliver of the earth remaining. Peace arrives not too easily as the damp branches smolder, and although we dig deep into our souls, we find only the vast unknown sending us cowering back into our crowded lives, yet the stillness remains. Stillness waiting, whispering, like a loyal hound at our feet—waiting, merely waiting for the day to trip and fall—the flames seizing our sight. We then may we try again under the blazon universe within the vast cosmos so effortlessly misunderstood. If only we could hear, if only we could see, if only we could feel anything but the cool breeze on the nape of our neck. A mortal reed so gentle, though so brilliant in its simplicity, we fade without ever having shone as bright as we may have, as soon enough it must be, it must have been, without effort, yet in haste, as the crickets in eager delight, chirp in the dead of night.