Flush Left | Michael H. Levin | 01 07 23

By Running Water

Say you’re this stream bed
framed by green willows
luscious with mud and trout fry;
channeling current through eelgrass,
tendrils, clusters of waterbug eggs.

Dream you’re the river
accepting this onrush
each blink each minute
open as love’s vast capacity.
One body pouring towards ocean,

weaving blue murmurs
from flint cliffs to sandbars 
flashing your twined 
ceaseless motion, 
your silver-coin flickers of hope.

—Submitted on 09/24/2022

Michael H. Levin is the author of Falcons (Finishing Line Press, 2020), Man Overboard (Finishing Line Press, 2018), and Watered Colors (Poetica Publishing, 2014). A lawyer and solar energy developer, Levin lives in Washington, DC.

Editor’s Note: The series title Flush Left refers to the fact that, due to our limited WordPress skills, we are only considering poems that are flush left.