TFR Home Page TFR Home PageContents ContentsPrev. Page Prev. PageNext Page Next PageComments Comments

          By Sarah Sloat

          I like to think in the end
          there is no ice, no fire,
          only the sound of water.

          When day’s empty hand turns
          over to dusk, again I hear it
          as if it had moved closer--
          the waterfall throwing itself down
          like a rope, long,
          loosely wound, dropping
          to the foot of the mountain.

          Somewhere far from here,
          its stream is untangling.
          Somewhere it travels
          an unfinished road.

          Every night against the silence,
          I listen to it tumbling down.
          I let the sound empty me;
          I feel it lower me, dreamless to sleep.
          Every night it’s there
          in my ear, leaving,

TFR Home Page | Submission Guidelines | Frequently Asked Questions | Sign Our Guest Book | Contents | Donations
Workshops | Event Calendar | TFR Background | How to Contact Us | Editors and Authors Only | Privacy Statement

© Copyright 1997, 2024, The Fairfield Review Inc., All Rights Reserved.
Document last modified on: 01/06/2007

(i[r].q=i[r].q||[]).push(arguments)},i[r].l=1*new Date();a=s.createElement(o),

ga('create', 'UA-22493141-2', 'auto');
ga('send', 'pageview');