The White-throated Dipper your wife
enjoys watching in the pond,
bobs and spins round and round.
It moves with such purpose through
swirls and tumbles exacting the right
moment to take its dive.
Autumn slips away.
While between the trees
the grey sky opens blurringyour bank-side view.
She taught you to be positive,
to seek out the good in all things
but for years, like greedy magpies, they stole
snippets of her shine, leaving her like
Ophelia, feeling crazy and adrift,
now she sits next to you absent,
underwater.
Originally published by the Mojave He[art] Review (USA) , July 2018
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem