scattered
It isn’t the mountain changing
but the miles of atmosphere
that dye the slope in hyacinth
and indigo. we watch the bluffs
become sky, forgetting which shades
are horizon, which water,
wrapped in the last
of each other’s summer hues.
a loon dips into the steely lake,
chasing fish. when I blink,
an inky haze clouds your jaw,
the edges of your eyes.
I am grateful
for the crowded blueness
of this air. I collect
the molecules between us
in a jar and thrust it toward you,
guess how much.
Beeper Peddle is a writer and healer living on the East Coast. She lives with her partner and their beloved soul puppy. Beeper writes about sorrows, lies, and deep loves. When you read her work, you will dip down into her heart and end up in all manner of body parts. Should you find yourself reflected in these words, it is merely coincidence; however, it does not surprise her you share the same heart. Find her at bethpeddle.com and @beeperpeddle on Twitter and Instagram
Ellen K. Fee (she/her) is an educator and writer from the Upper Midwest. Born in Wisconsin, Ellen graduated from the University of Minnesota and works with school-age youth in creative writing and publishing programs. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Flyway Journal, Reckoning, Reliquiae, West Trade Review, and stamped into the sidewalks of St. Paul, where she lives. She can be found on social media @ellenkfee.
Want more Ellen? See her other poem in this issue: sonnet from the winter bedroom
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