the poetry of Charles Fry

3 December 1996

the day that I cried

Convulsing, coughing, choking,
on the too much water flowing into my lungs as I swallow the air bubbles.
My gills have given out and I can't filter in the oxygen.
Sadly I bend my head down and cry into the water as he steals my tears.
Are they saltier than he is I wonder as I watch them float away.
These stone shoes are so heavy but they are warm and comfortable
and the soles are riveted with diamonds that sparkle as I sink.

Dropping, sliding, gliding
into my happy silent home.
Tired and sleepy so all I lift is my fingers,
twirling me slowly, indifferently down.
Yawning I suck in the crystal water,
then blow it out in small warm rings.
Complacency overtakes me and I silently close my eyes.

The heat from the paved road burns my tender feet.
I raise my eyes and carefully trace the outline of my shadow
down the road and up a small hill where I can almost reach the sun.
Smiling I race forward in awkward strides then jump so high
and lift and stretch until my shadow's hand reaches the sun
and then pulls it in and cuddles it so tight against my weeping body
that it burns into my soul and evaporates my falling tears before they touch the ground.

Copyright © 1996 Charles Fry