Paul Carlson

Scores of tiny fishes
swimming in a stream of ore.
My yearning heart goes
out to them
as I want them
more and more
Scores of tiny fishes
dancing on a floor of stone.
My hands they
reach right out
for them
to touch them and
to own
Seven silver moonshards
dance inside my head.
And if I think real closely
I see them as I've said

Those fish won't swim
Those beams won't dance
like that ever again
But I can look
to my imagination
and remember them as friends