I Imagine I Am Moving in Water
I’m just standing in my kitchen
in the early morning darks,
but I imagine, slowly at first,
that I am swimming toward the day
ahead, like I used to swim toward
the blue raft in the far-off middle
of that lake at Camp Birchwood,
hoping I could make it over green lengths,
glide over the snags and slime, weeds
beneath me, tickling fish for company.
Peanut, my small dog, looks at me
oddly, yawns, brushes my ankles.
The only water is held by the kettle
over blue flame. I stand near the stove,
make hesitant motions toward
the ceiling. Is this the breast stroke?
My arms arc and contract, tire. But I
keep going, adding legs, bending
my knees, bobbing up on my toes,
whole being flailing, never reaching
the ceiling yet confident the new day
is out there, and that I will arrive,
spent but happy. Later, I will pull myself
onto the blue raft of another evening.
Leslie Schultz
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Splendid! I am not aware of such categories, but let’s invent them!
Brigid, as you know, is the goddess of poetry, gateways and liminal times, and metal-working.
Aside from a dawn and dusk, what liminal times do you have in mind?
If there is a category of poems called “Early morning memory poems” this would be a perfect example – that point in the morning where time expands and we hold the present and the past tightly bound together. Write more of these at the liminal ( a favorite notion) points in the day. There is a special magic in this poem that reflects that time in between.
So glad you like it, Stella. I hope Richard Parker, too, approves!
Lovely poem, Leslie.