Tiny Boats

Down turbid rushing stream, tiny boats float where english ivy climb from the bottom of a hill. I look up toward nature’s wall, grounded in fevered moss. Rocks reveal themselves as water pulls in rhythmic motion, and drops like a blanket falling off. My brain’s illusion tells me I see a bird soaring. Are you as often so easily distracted by such wishful thinking? These miniature wood carvings are weightless, they bob quick with intention– an attempt to portray as nice or faithful, but intentions only go so far. Morning fog lifts and hovers, creating a sedative backdrop. It carries with it – the pretend. Exposing a more accurate truth-telling, this is just a small stream on the side of a narrow, one-way road. With your honey hands, you never called. Lichen skin licked me, you once did. Your pine needle lashes closed while viny veins pulse. Wire pubic hairs crimp to the beat of blood pumping. Weeds, in the woods of your words, my fingers cramp from pulling– the small boats and inflated response. Your oath more hollow than the oak tree housing rodents and birds. Fireflies dangle on a single string above the patio. Intentions cannot carry you far. I bend down and whisper with my lily-petaled fingertips. In one-fourth of my palm, the miniature yellow wooden boat sits on its side. Like your words, shiny, yet insignificant when compared.