Nether
By Leila Wilson
The equilibrium of any particular aspect of nature rests on the equivalence of its opposites. —Piet Mondrian
Some land lives
so water can comb
it into grids. This
is why lowlands
tilt still toward
the sea. This so
we call our canal
leaning horse,
hat tempting wind,
somewhere a tear
in linen where
the loom bent
a heddle. We plant
lapis in the middle
of begonia boxes
hung from our
houseboat’s sills.
At night the eels
snug against
our houseboat’s hum,
water’s warm hem.
We hear them slip
itch into our floor.
Our houseboat lilts
when the bigger boats
slide us waves.
Our concrete floats.
We’re mostly moored
to stay. In the damp
bank where the ducks
hedge weeds,
our bikes sleep.
We lean toward wind.
Our pant legs thin
from all the rain
on our knees.
From here the horizon
gauzes above us.
We are half hidden
by light. We are folds
in fog. We stand
open on the deck
and beckon the silt
to settle. We wait
for a balance so grand
that any flicker
of inverse could
pull us up to spires.
Source: Poetry (September 2008)