every evening, I would jog
around the famous Boomer Lake,
looking into the troubled water,
seeking solutions to a geometry problem
that shadows of trees cannot solve.
Along the sidewalk,
naked willow trees fold
their slim frosted arms,
lowering their heads
to mourn the loss of their strength
in ripples of water.
i wish to swim into far distance
to escape the stress of a dark race,
a pair of hands always pull me
backward, I get lost
as schools of wild geese duck their heads on grassy seeds.
Thursday Poets Rally Week 79: January 14-January 27, 2015 (5th anniversary celebration)