Waiting for Discovery

This is no time to anticipate
whether or not the bird
will fly to the branch or the reed,

or, if her feathers
will stay floating on the pond.

For it is almost the wakeful evening,
and I am somewhere between

the sleep of roiling water
and the sleep of ice

which wait not for the dream of bone
but of marrow,

that chases the bird
from the woods to the field,
from stone to stone.

David A. Goodrum lives in Corvallis, Oregon. His poems are forthcoming or have been published in Spillway, New Plains Review, The Nebraska Review and other journals. Even before his early thirties, he was certain he would never write poetry again. He continues, it seems, to be wrong. About most things.

See more of his work in 10.1

Previous | Next