Forecast and Its Failure

Adam Clay

My daughter collecting rocks from the shore each day,
a pile on the piano bench, some under foot,
others disrupting the smooth rhythm of the kitchen table:
flint, quartz, basalt, sea glass, chert.

Moments become disallowed from memory:
the shallows of the day like the shadows of the day.

While she sleeps, we return the rocks to water.

Like an emerald sky before a storm,
the negation of a moment also admits it.

Each day begins with a rock in the palm—
the lake exists to saddle our apology.

This poem was not erased from another.

Here, life mirrors what we can’t quite speak.
Here, our skin seems too alive to hold us in.

Trading in a wishbone for a branch,
broth boiling on the woodstove,
a family of loons circled from above,
sand making the water deeper than it should be,
a hummingbird too big to be a hummingbird.

Back to top ↑

Sign up for Our Email Newsletter