Some have no need
to chart its depth.
My grandmother only worried about what she’d feed
people, and whether the rolls, with their rounds like
child cheeks, had risen, and, if
the chew at the table near equaled
the talk, she’d beam
in the gustatory steam
foregoing the hand-over-hand lifting
of the lead.
While me, I can hardly witness
my own happiness, much less bask,
rather I ask the moment
about lasting, and too, the past,
trying to fathom
what is bound in part
by that effort,
and what is bound in other part
by the nature of the heart,
shaped, as it is, like a fist
that wants to grasp things, hold
them tight, rather than, say, a fish
who’ll swim in stream, pond, sea alike–
who’ll swish even
in the curl of puddle–you know,
if it’s a wise
Not sure about the end of this poem, but it’s a draft draft draft for my own prompt on With Real Toads to write something using two words of a Christmas carol or other holiday song. In my case, the words are “sounding joy” from Joy to the World.
Process Note–I use sounding here in all kinds of ways (I hope) but particularly sounding depths of water, which traditionally used a rope and a lead, and, more recently, sonar.
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