David L. White
waters
aspen leaves falling. the grass is long. matted. uncut. the river is close. i can smell the
watercress that knots in little gullies. tangles with hemlock. the wild mushrooms. i feel the
moss floor. spongy, wet. the sun is centered by sky. but clouds overhang arched pines,
arched fir. this one road is our single van. we won’t speak. through forests of aspen, forests
of fir. i look out at the wide lake. circled in a million strands of wet sea grass but there is
no sea here. the lake has hair, so it appears to me. the slate of the face of the water holds
another kingdom. a crested bird of huge proportion sits like a king atop a stump that
sticks out of the water . the slate faced lake. a crested bird yells at the implacable tablet. the
mouthless water. the crested bird. its neck is a fragile idea. we won’t talk about this. i stop
to push the hair from my forehead. brush your hair back from your face wet with sudden
rain. my hands are wet and hold everything i would say.
David L. White's poetry has appeared or is upcoming in Salamander, Paper Nautilus, Potomac Review, PRISM international, Southwestern American Literature and elsewhere. He currently teaches creative writing in Tempe, Arizona where he lives with his family.
Return to September 2015 Edition
aspen leaves falling. the grass is long. matted. uncut. the river is close. i can smell the
watercress that knots in little gullies. tangles with hemlock. the wild mushrooms. i feel the
moss floor. spongy, wet. the sun is centered by sky. but clouds overhang arched pines,
arched fir. this one road is our single van. we won’t speak. through forests of aspen, forests
of fir. i look out at the wide lake. circled in a million strands of wet sea grass but there is
no sea here. the lake has hair, so it appears to me. the slate of the face of the water holds
another kingdom. a crested bird of huge proportion sits like a king atop a stump that
sticks out of the water . the slate faced lake. a crested bird yells at the implacable tablet. the
mouthless water. the crested bird. its neck is a fragile idea. we won’t talk about this. i stop
to push the hair from my forehead. brush your hair back from your face wet with sudden
rain. my hands are wet and hold everything i would say.
David L. White's poetry has appeared or is upcoming in Salamander, Paper Nautilus, Potomac Review, PRISM international, Southwestern American Literature and elsewhere. He currently teaches creative writing in Tempe, Arizona where he lives with his family.
Return to September 2015 Edition