Tides

Like a wave rebounded, in spume off rocks
though slowly slowly almost still
or imper­cep­ti­bly astir,
that white fume, that cloud along the mountain.

Like manta rays I’ve seen on videos
the shades of clouds move some­times rapidly
in silence over ridges down the val­leys
leap­ing fir-trees and glid­ing meadows

and paths in mead­ows. Fifty Autum­nal tides
almost have worn the shores of me,
swift as a hum­ming­bird in look­ing back,
inter­minable as day­dream in a prison.

 

 

 





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Michael Axtell lives in Col­orado Springs, Col­orado. His poems and reviews have appeared widely in the small presses.