Collaboratively written and revised by Jose A. Alcantara, Matt Daly, and Eric Paul Shaffer
Read By Lori Howe
A season has passed since I felt the moraine
pass beneath my feet and beneath the snow.
Stars no longer burn winter’s black
drapery through with pinholes. I stand
between the blue of summer and the lake
of forgetting, the gauze of cells sheathing my hands
empty of everything but traceries,
the upward gaze of daisies submerged in cold water
a fish’s silver fin, the familiar bend and ache.
To be alive with currents shaping my movements
means that I will remain, enmeshed among
a hundred frogs beckoning the warm night.