There's an old wooden bridge I cross, always on tiptoe, holding my breath. What I need lives in this deep creek. I think this each time I hear it plink, diving, to disappear beneath ferns overhanging the bank. And watch ripples widening. La… Read on blog or Reader Eunoia Review Read on blog or Reader Something perfectsublimemasters April 3 There's an old wooden bridge I cross, always on tiptoe, holding my breath. What I need lives in this deep creek. I think this each time I hear it plink, diving, to disappear beneath ferns overhanging the bank. And watch ripples widening. Laura Isabela Amsel has poems in recent issues of Terrain.org, Another Chicago Magazine, […] Read more of this post Comment Like You can also reply to this email to leave a comment.

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