Cold Water Memory

by Greg Watson, Robert Bixby (Editor)

Poetry The Bloodlines of Leaves The bloodlines of leaves
map their way through the palms of your hands,
words dripping like dream
from your No ceremonies pounding
No holiness here
No ghosts to round up,
only an occasional choppy This is autumn.
The witching bird has flown
The highways are all deserted if you
look There is nothing here
to save or
to fear.
Sometimes it is best
to simply let a wound bleed.

41 pages, Paperback

First published June 15, 2001

Reviews

[Taylor Collins · Rating 5 out of 5]

Simply put, in the pond that is Greg Watson I am a leaf--content to go where his waters flow and "the movement a symbol of the hand."

In his deep waters an abundance of metaphors swim. The reader can swirl, dive, float among them grabbing handfuls of seasons, reflected glimpses of memories. Watson's water gathers as snow, rain, clouds. Find it in swamps or perhaps dribbling down windows or as blood coursing through veins. Watson invites the reader to immerse themselves, aware that an outstretched hand is nigh. Line in quotes above is from his poem “The Sculptress” on p 30.