Nothing wishes to test depths;
imaginings of monsters lurking
beneath keep all on distant edge
circling, facing forward, dreading
movement from the middle,
not wanting to see, but wanting to see,
escape might be possible.
Leaves tremble in shallows,
scratch shore to recede
leaving them high and dry;
wet they lift a fiber to snatch
passing wind’s wake
to drag aground where decay
far better fate than immersion,
out there, down there,
blind baptism of no return.
About the Poet
Diane Webster’s goal is to remain open to poetry ideas in everyday life, nature or an overheard phrase. Many nights she falls asleep juggling images to fit into a poem. Her work has appeared in Philadelphia Poets, Better Than Starbucks, The Aurorean and other literary magazines.