After a double martini

the very air is more intense.

The distant shore sinks into the deep lake

darkly stained by heavy pines

and cumbrous clouds low-slung.

Silence is a symphony heart-heard,

the sough of needles, sighing reeds.

Chill wavelets lip the pebbled beach,

stir mossy shadows, smell green.

In the cool twilight pale daisies

light a path to the purpling water.

I hunch upon the stone steps intent,

my book braced against my knees.

The words are nearly gone.

Around me invasive windows flare.

The rock grows hard against my back, and cold.

But I cannot stop.

Still I run with the Creeks

through the luscious wilds of Georgia.

I feel the whisper of thistled arrows flying

eye-straight to the bird,

the feathered quartz striking down the deer.

My legs quiver with the tension of the race.

Finally, I close the romantic Creeks back into history.

I fling the ice puddle from my drink over

the geranium plants beside the steps,

into the musky dusk of this fractious day.

From its grassy galaxy I pluck an ashen star,

spilling pollen through my fingers.

The crisp flower is electric in my palm

whorling its petals in Fibonacci splendor.

O mighty multiple daisy –

O mighty multiple Creeks before Columbus –

O mighty multiple histories crumbling before

the Daughter of Time –

O mighty multiple martini!

Monday is a weekend away.

Soon I will go out for fish and chips

swimming in sweet vinegar.

But, yet awhile, I will share the last  light

with the damp toad as still as death

in my geranium roots.

Cynthia Buell Thomas