SeanWard.org

	 The Virginia meadow stretches out and rises
	 in strips of treeshadow, and the bones
	 of a cherry grasp at passing blue. The last
	 of its leaves have long since found the least
	 circuitous route to the ground and melted
	 into the green grass and passing seasons.  

	 There is always snow in the mountains
	 where the atmosphere clasps it to the peak,
	 but it can't be seen from the meadow
	 where the spring is protected.  

	 The springhouse leans the way all abandoned houses lean
	 the way all the trees that cling along a coastline lean
	 the way clothes pinned along a clothesline lean
	 when put out to dry.  

	 All places have their prevailing winds, hands
	 that direct the flow of things, and over time
	 they push everything a certain direction.
	 The snow capped winter melts and moves to the valley
	 whenever it is warm enough, and flows within
	 the bleached oak boards of the springhouse.  

	 A ladel, blackened from the elements, dangles from
	 a rawhide noose looped about a wooden peg. The
	 weathered door creaks as my hands pull it open.  

	 The water inside is flat and the round bed stones
	 beg for fingertips. I lean forward, reach
	 with the ladel, and hear his voice from years ago
	 when his hair first turned white, his strong hand
	 on my shoulder, "Don't let the bottom fool you,"
	 he says. "It's deeper than it looks."   

	 I drop a pebble and it suspends itself somewhere
	 between transparent surface and clear rock bottom
	 before drifting away in the current. The water
	 is cold and deep and swift. It tastes like winter.