Runcible Spoon

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Releasing the Day


I sent the lure’s feathery feelers reeling

up and away to go rest in the last ripples

of sunlight. I can’t quite convince myself

to carpe some other diem

and to release this day.


I want to jump

into the sun-drenched lake and color myself

in its borrowed amber light, because moments

are like fish: when you hook a good one,

you can’t help but hold on tight.


But these ancient photons

were never really mine.

They took eons to get here

only to disappear,

and even the ones that seeped

into my skin will soon etherize.


Still, I want:


To dye my hair vermillion

with the embers of the setting sun

as it powders the cotton-ball sky with blush.


To dip my feet in the silent lake and hear

the wind start to make the bulrushes sway

and sing as the evening hush is obliterated

by a chorus of toads, and insects taking wing.


To sit in my boat and learn

to take in all the nighttime

creatures doing nighttime things.