But You Have Promises to Keep
Matthew Miller
Feet halve the river, passing between each mythical shore. Foxes dwell
in marshy reeds, but I’m nomadic, a kestrel whose reward is in the stars.
Dust grinds in the hips of this meandering land. Bread and wine disappear
for a thousand years, after the blessing. I sidestep tar pits, settle under
tenebrith and oak, pitch my tents, anoint bent knolls like altars.
Form ever follows function. Stacking river rock, lifting a smoking firepot.
Shadows leave cool imprints in sand, where promises bloom by walking
between divided wings.
Matthew Miller teaches social studies, swings tennis rackets, and writes poetry - all hoping to create home. He lives beside a dilapidated orchard in Indiana, where he tries to shape dead trees into playhouses for his four boys. His poetry has been featured in River Mouth Review, Whale Road Review, Club Plum Journal and Ekstasis Magazine.