by Barbara McGillicuddy Bolton

How quaint
Knowing you these days as
Scoffers tumble out of the closet
Like clowns from a packed VW
And yet
Like an ice-edged brook
Twisting through dense woods
Seeking depth, never returning—
A rivulet running through me
On its way to the sea—or
A teller of tales improvising love stories—
Myself a minor character,
One star in an expanding universe—
Neither charting nor plotting rather
Making a way as you go
Bear with us.