WINTER 2013 (Issue 77)
 

William Kelley Woolfitt

Time, the Springhouse

The burnished sun hangs on the peg of night. 
We turn in the boat of our bed,
 
twitch when the songs of whippoorwill and peeper
leak through our window, come down as a fine net
 
on our skins.  Golden-brown, a corona glows
around our moon, egg-washed in its copper pan. 
 
Waves of light and water lap the walls,
crest in the basins of our dreams,
 
flicker like embers mounded over johnnycakes. 
Ribs and gunnels rise, fall, rise again. 
 
Space is the long shelf where radiance cools;
gravity, the pie-safe that keeps the sweetness fresh;
 
time, the springhouse where phrases swim
in the dark waters of the diverted stream.
 
We awaken with crumbs on our lips,
granules of rime in the corners of our eyes.

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