Dry Fountain

Buzz of erratic emotions guided strands of sterling wicker,
behind her ears, where his hope cavorted,
bracing for their journey to eternity. He wished her weightlessness, a freshly mowed meadow,
her own kingdom. It was time, the nurse
repeated. He agreed: time to leave the rocky
forest of life, time to be more than a shadow
of pain. If only they were in the same boat,
he could have taken her hand and - along with
his lost sleep - rowed back to the beginning;
no tide, no current. I T I S T I M E
announced a ghostly gust, a plaster on his wound.