The words I meant to speak
have slipped away,
swallowed into the orange lip of sunrise
stretched thin in the darkness,
lapped between lake
and low-hanging cloud,
indigo on indigo.
In the water slapping at my feet
I listen for the echo of your voice.
In the rhythms of reflected
light I hear the gentle pulse
of silence.
I wait for one shimmering word
on the back of a wave
to hold me at the shore.
- Nan Jackson
Nan Jackson lives in mid-Michigan. Water is a common theme in her poems, from her experiences in Northern California’s mountains and shorelines to her home in the Great Lakes region. Nan’s work has been published in Peninsula Poets, Flying Island Journal, 3rd Wednesday Magazine, Tulip Tree Review, and elsewhere.
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