POETRY

By Neil Flatman 

Late sun longing through the knuck­les of the blackthorns

by the pond; a lan­guorous spark. The copper heads of ferns

bow down with what remain­ing dignity they hold. Autumn’s

flown; longer days dis­solved fast as a winter breath. Surely

that’s the memory, real or not, you searched for in the book

of all the wonder the world’s too broken to contain. I know

too many syn­onyms for longing. Can’t tell you how many

times I’ve had to pull up roots. Repeat the season ’til it cracks

until it can’t say what it is, just what it wants.

This story orig­i­nal­ly appeared in Stonecoast Review Issue 18.

Photo by Maddy Baker.