As a child, I lumbered by the ripples,
curling, uncurling, to the rhythms of
the day. Unfurling, the ripples of the lake.
There were dreams in my hide,
hidden thick and soft, unknown to age.
The grasses hid the passing of the days.

Hear my passing in the grasses of the days –
Here I pass; my shadow ripples.
Here I pass; here I lose my shape and age.
Here I crumple with the ease of the ripples of
the lake – here, they have eased into my hide.
Days have passed since I loved you at the lake.

Days have passed since you loved me at the lake.
Uncurling and uncurled, we grazed away our days,
loving with the rhythms of the waves. To have, to hide,
in the dusk, the curving of your tusk, four ripples
are all we are, in my dreams. We dreamed of
softness and the coming of our age.

You never knew the darkened days of our age –
never knew the stars dimmed in the lake.
You felt no fear, shed no tears, in your reign of
ivory years, tears that crumple our days
and dim the rain. Our days were mere ripples
to your tides; in your time, our dreams will never hide.

But my hopes I keep hidden in my hide,
hopes that do not dim, even in my age.
By the lake, I will rock; by your ripples
gently mock my reflection in the lake
of our youth. Many days I will dream, our days –
as soft and tender as the dusts we are made of.

For now, I slumber through the dusts of
the days, rocking, unlocking. Here, the bones fill my hide
like the shudder of the waves. Here, the days
have filled the lakes of my eyes. The ancient age
will revive – your tusks will shiver in the lake.
For now, your task is mine: the water ripples.

In my hide, I still dream; in my hide, remembrance ripples.
In my age, I have memorized my days.
In my morning, in my song, where the memories grow long, curls the passing of the rippling of a lake.

Published in ‘but’, a writing anthology.

 

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