Rose gave me a blue string –
the shade of the deep before
creatures turn
blind, as they sink
into midnight,
deprived
the tint of icebergs
compressed
by time, then calving
into saltwater and gone
for
the tone of serenity
as it beads at the nib,
to sum seeds
as inklings of loss
slip,
so,
I spooled
the string
upon my left and with the other end taught in my right, as if the line held a fish or a kite,
stretched it between both, here to count
the kicks of this new day –
the touch of first morning
chill as it greets my eager cheek
the pull of stride’s shadow, mine,
marching beneath a warming meridian
the prizing of the nightly bow
I give to new root and reverie,
thus held between horizon and home, the blue string shrunk
in length from the wrest
of the day,
but I did not
let go
the entire way.
Julie Morris lives in Providence, Rhode Island, where she maintains a private practice. Her writing grows out of close attention to outer and inner worlds, shaped by movement through time and frame of mind. Her work has appeared in I-70 Review. Julie earned her PhD in Clinical Psychology from the University of Wyoming.
