Dan Simpson, Reading

Water laps at the edge of Cooper River,

sun just  warm enough to compromise

the breeze  coming off the water.

Rain-blanched  leaves, broken bits of glass,

twigs stripped of bark, splayed feathers -

winter’s final graffiti  - rim the banks,

notes-in-a-bottle assuring us

that warmth is not far off.

Dan stands behind the podium

fingers skimming Braille letters

as though to unlock the poetry held there

or perhaps it’s an organ from which

his own song rises transformed into words.

At the first clap of hands he cautions:

No applause until the end.

He is taking us down a different  river

through bends and cadences he knows well,

our noise like gunfire on the bank

jolts us from the journey.

His voice flowing, honest

opens into expanses of coneflower and larkspur,

not our homeland, but familiar.

It’s where we’ve all collaged our memories from

a childhood prank, a father’s words, 

a glimpse of heaven.

Dan retrieves the bottle bobbing  beside us,

deciphering its hexagrams.

His forecast reads:

The yellow sun shines lemonade

which means the sky must be blue.