© 2006 Chris Crittenden

Water

fills eye sockets

of ocean floor;

reflects sky

in the gateway

to a planet's soul.

it's a mask

for scoured faces

weeping at the bottom

of riverbeds.

when storms orgasm

water crystalizes into semen

destined to fuel a rose.

you cannot hug it

but it can hug you

with ambiguous arms

as you float,

uncertain yet buoyant,

staring up at sunlight

that jealously retrieves

stray pearls.

Maples Before Winter

they falter, thrusting gaffs

out of yellow-cinnamon,

hooking pieces of themselves

that eventually wriggle away.

there's one squirrel:  one droplet

of mammalian warmth

running along cold arteries;

one pin leaping between slow jugglers;

one surge of agility

in wind-tugged arthritis.

at night, their tatters hidden,

the maples forget pain,

forget encroaching hibernation,

and focus instead on swaying.

their quintuple fingertips

savor moonlight.

the sky has never been so much an ocean

rocking them to sleep.

All work is property of Chris Crittenden.

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