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By Laurie Klein like a small body of water, reflective face, upturned: an entity of acceptance. Water embraces the sunken. The near-dying as well as the thriving stir, like plants practicing grace as they lean on the current. Let me be a haven, where shared sediments settle. Where buoyancy reasserts itself. Where you will beckon the weathered vessel, and I will coax the reluctant toe. We’ll soften the chipped margins of shells. Castoffs. The chronically stony. Encompassed, the survivor rises the way a trout breaks from silence, to surface, old hooks and lines ingrown, jaw half-trussed-- wounds revealed, by one seeking a witness. What was it the risen one said? Hark. Flow and do likewise. Laurie Klein is the author of Where the Sky Opens and Bodies of Water, Bodies of Flesh. A grateful recipient of the Thomas Merton Prize for Poetry of the Sacred, she lives in the Pacific Northwest and blogs, monthly, at lauriekleinscribe.com.
Laurie's other work on Foreshadow: Private, as the Small of a Back (Poetry, October 2023) Predawn (Poetry, October 2023) Uphill (Poetry, October 2023)
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