Postcard
       

Travelled inside the sea wall, gauzy net, hole
in summer's dress, losing color with each
breath, the seashore inward in the mornings.
Some early days stricken, possibly with rain,
and we forgot how to entirely. A sea held
under its surface, redrawn, and so what we
composed was less than ideal. Yet still
we hurried, if only to find ourselves folded
inside the same palest chance. It was a story
we told countlessly, each time revising
the end. The hills disappeared into the sea.
But nothing passed through the seismic
blockade, even the waves were simply rumors.
We thought of it as a frame, and inside,
thickened time, something we could almost
hold. Like water, but sadder, disloyal.

Copyright © 2009 Margaret Ronda All rights reserved
from Personification
Saturnalia Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission