Log Cabin Chronicles
She combed the sand
Of the twisted dry riverbed.
Wrinkles from the water now gone remained
On the flesh-pink bottom, undressed sand.
She stroked with the comb of her mind the sedimented expanse,
Trying to turn chaotic scraps into the smoothness of well-woven threads,
Remember a past in which no individual thread or fragment
Will be obvious and vicious in the mirage of the mass.
She dropped the comb of her mind to the rug,
Gave into her grief.
She imagined sunlight streaking silver a rapidly flowing river.
Copyright © 2000 Duane Locke