Held back, another word to a false wisdom:
eat, drink, take the ferry across the water,
you sit but you get where you’re going;
a land made from profound sadness,
but only twelve feet under your toes,
your baker’s dozen left one of your
ideas out of the picture you formed in your
head, homilies over-done, burned to a wisp,
your leaves make the table wider and shimmer
in a sunny day that is avoided by the off-leash
dogs in a park dedicated to a river and situated
on a lake; summer didn’t ask for your definition
or to be remembered, but we, you and I,
have constructed a frame to let our
impressions play in front of the fireplace,
when winter takes its days back.
Roman Ryan 