the fossil record
<<33>>
In the Depths of Summer
A well in the sun—
how far up the sky goes.
Is it to be blue then?
Azure or sapphire?
I listen to the others,
those strangers on whom
my reputation depends & they say
it is what it is.
Another hot-bed opens:
the reservoir where, as children,
we walked on the grounds
of hallowed ones.
Like Indian Springs, the sun:
a well without water, without fish—
a place formerly rich
with myth and footprints and dancing.
I listen to others.
What they say travels all the way
into my prim little heart.
That embroidery, is it
a pun? Or is it just what you meant
to convey?
Judith Skillman