The Singing Lake
Meg Smith
Hearts of ice float, and between them,
measures of sky — clouds, holding worlds
and songs, of the boy who fell, the girl
who laughed with her friend at midnight
on the rocky shore. These are migrant oceans,
a fissure between land, and nation.
A moon might cast its light, and shimmer
over someone sighing for, reaching for
even the gray, grayest light of no blood.
