There is no cure for this low-grade melancholy.
Like a snake, you are never far from your shadow.
Begin as if the reader knows the past,
Has forgotten as much as you have.
How stalled and earthbound the river--
Depths filled with cloud reflections,
Shallows solid where nothing blurs, nothing focuses,
Dusty light barely yields the objects it cloaks.
To dwell in thought is to live in the interregnum
And yet, on the other side of the river,
Chestnut, piebald, dapple-gray, and black roan
Slip over the hill toward a stable you have culled from memory.
For once, let the peony be a stand-in for fullness.
The peony, opening, spills yesterday's rain.
[Eric Pankey, 'To Dwell in Thought', from Trace]