, ,


You take the calm upon you
freely as a dress
flows in summer.

Something about sprinklers spinning
over lakes of grass.
Something like the cool hand
of the sun going down.

Each day is suddenly
a song you recognise
easily as fish swim.
What was that storm that raged
its way under winter’s skin?

Published: December, Terri Ryan  (now Connellan), 1989 poetry — Appears in: Mattoid , no. 35 1989; (p. 41)