by Gabrielle Woolley
I.
Whatever was left
or laid in the sand,
mossed over like velvet.
The ice melts,
collecting small pools
that sit quiet.
II.
I spent my season
just waiting for one email,
or was it one word?
Consider then, how
each whole distills
into singular parts,
like the desire behind
a question, or quick glints
of light through glass.
What came before my
longing is lack, a long drip
from an unknown source.
III.
I yield to the still
river, evening colored.
A stark, frozen mirror.
****
Gabrielle Woolley is a Philly based writer.