I almost forgot about you once—in the turning basin of a dream. Lost the sweet taste of your hand that offered polished stones the color of red wine. I pulled my nest together, held a bunny to my ear—warm and soft, full of whooshing sounds—wished for the ocean. Found myself muttering like a fool, “For the rain it raineth every day.” The mind does what it does, follows its own elusive tidal roll of mulled comedy. The gentle power behind the stars pays no mind to my storms.
Meg Freer grew up in Montana and now teaches piano in Kingston, Ontario, where she enjoys taking photos outdoors and wishes she had more time for writing poetry. Her prose, photos, and poems have won awards in North America and overseas and have been published in anthologies and journals such as Ruminate, Juniper Poetry, Vallum Contemporary Poetry, and Borrowed Solace.