On Spring Lake, indifferent to winter,
a profusion of water lilies (nymphaea,
sprites – yes) near to blooming.
Even the day’s inconsistencies —
chill, then warm; sun after gray —
occasion a certain comfort.
River flows around cypress roots, over
the bare karst.
On such little diversions, the day passes.
Today: such concern,
caution, despair
for the world. Yet
these woods, too,
once fronted the river.
—
Steve Wilson’s poems have appeared in journals and anthologies nationwide, as well as in six collections, the most recent entitled Complicity (2023). He lives in San Marcos, Texas.
