William Doreski

By William Doreski
Peterborough, New Hampshire

Ashen silence molds itself
into the shape of geese drifting
on a gray lake. The angle
of their wake is acute enough
to suggest they’ll get somewhere,

despite their casual poise.
Soon they disappear in a mist
so fine we can hardly feel it
soak through and reveal our bones.
The far shore has faded away.

Maybe the planet has eroded
so its rough edge approaches us
with threats we can’t understand.
Maybe the lake is pouring into
the vacuum of absolute space.

You tire of these uncertainties
and claim we live by maps and charts
that prove the geologic doom
I fear can’t possibly happen.
Geese can happen. Loons and mallards

happen every day. But the flat earth
occurs only in certain old texts,
and even then, you note, the edge
isn’t sharp enough to harm us
unless we choose to die of fright.

By William Doreski
Peterborough New Hampshire

Fragrant lilies critique the pond.
Subtleties of their punctuation
leave us gasping for response.

The water is a dirty pane of glass.
Looking at rather than through it
reveals only dinge and drab.

No wonder aquatic disdain
extends to dry land where voices
sail across wooded places

and boomerang back to intellects
that lack both form and content.
The lilies remain so aloof,

although rooted in the shallows,
that no one considers plucking them
to place in ordinary vases

in rooms where reckless children roam.
The August days simper and preen.
The pond water smell of decay

although fish and amphibians thrive
despite the threats of climate change.
The lilies gather information

to feed their impeccable poise.
Sun, rain, wind, unseasonable heat.
The force of their critique remains

until some moonless night when
they’ll fold themselves out of reach,
leaving everything vital unsaid.