In the sunlit life—

by MICHAEL RAVENSCROFT

In the sunlit life I was

just as full of fervor as I was wrong.

Just as the green-flavored fruit

tasted from the saccharine orchard

in my dessert days, it seemed cruel

that sugar in another light and off the tongue

is only a valley of white sand

stretching endlessly.

And we spent our time

tossing balls of yarn in the air

that never unraveled, only rolled

under some discrete porch

forgetting themselves in that unruly river.

Because before I was unmade

I circled the greenery of a lush meadow,

cycling around its edges in the

midsummer warmth—

until the lines blurred in autumn,

and sometimes-trodden paths

were lost beneath the leaves.

To think, that circle,

just a loving price for soaring

along on the ground. I wonder sometimes

if my guide led me astray,

falling into some heady notion

that we were all just voices on the air,

and time turning in on itself

would never make us pause.

MICHAEL RAVENSCROFT was born in Canada, grew up in Michigan, and is currently writing, working and living in Washington DC.