OK, Yeah.
This poem is for Mary, my wife.
And it may be a male chauvinist poem I don't know,
but I'm working on it, it's not really finished.
It's called Lake Ampersand.
Fingernails she goes back to that place inside her
where the leaves have yellowed, the bark is silver.
She thinks sometimes she can see her face there.
Children have carved their initials deep,
her hands along the scarred surface feeling pain,
slow drops like water from an icicle.
She kneels down careful to shelter
the tiny lichen British soldier.
The coat red pure like the blood a young girl
sees to pricks her finger sewing.
She can see it now, her life swirling past liquid
and clear this place in the forest
where I sit watching her move, her hands
making waves in the water.