Lucy Cole Gratton
SIGNS
Acres of forest,
a beguiling creek
downward splashing
from a copious waterfall
into the lake’s primitive splendor.
Years away from progress.
A time of solitude and peace,
hard physical labor,
volunteer work, contemplation,
of writing, reading, letting go.
Signs are everywhere.
Time to go…
Leave this place, die mourning it;
or stay at risk against wise counsel –
unbearable choices.
Even if chosen,
how, by what means –
give it all away,
sell it to a stranger,
how would they know
to earn the rudiments of care?
If I were to go, parting
would shatter my heart;
gouge a hole
in an ebbing mind;
turn my soul
to hoar frost.
Wild Goose Poetry Review 