I dreamed of water And the penguin And they all came back, Paddling a deep round lake, Navigating swampy channels, The rush and pound again, after all that squirmed its way those years of water willow strands hanging the hidden path: of dark waves eating the dry years. into my car, bit dreams, surrounding over the wall, searching, flower-lined and mossy sandstone cliffs, I found her then, my hand, and took me me now. Like her. touching the water; brushing banked, in an old wooden leaving a single house, but almost never The lake, and the cottage to all his places: Just off the edge. the sides of my canoe. Chris-Craft, hurrying into town, with an old Chinese man could hold on the other side. the cave, the junkyard, to market, to sell our painting symbols, untouched. the memory. The road with too many cars blond hair and water-gathered goods. to cross, and how the unwilling hitchhiker. will I get there?
by Simran Singh Gleason