by Jack B. Bedell
He could never remember
a time when he did not love
the sheen of light on water.
Any water. Any light. Even the tiny
puddle at his feet held reflections—
of clouds, of mountain peaks, of
pigeons flying overhead. And the smallest
waves pushed by breeze! They broke
against cobblestone just like squalls
against sand, ripple after ripple,
tides in and out. Their pull identical
no matter how confined, delineated
or murky with street dust. The way its
surface bent light or branch or coin
to its own angle always felt
like the hand of God reaching
into his days, a muscularity of spirit he could
capture with the proper pencil and time.
::
Jack B. Bedell is Professor of English at Southeastern Louisiana University where he also edits Louisiana Literature and directs the Louisiana Literature Press. Jack’s work has appeared in HAD, Heavy Feather, Brawl Lit, Moist, and other journals. He’s also had pieces included in Best Microfiction and Best Spiritual Literature. His latest collection is Ghost Forest (Mercer University Press, 2024). He served as Louisiana Poet Laureate 2017-2019.
Image: Chandler Cruttenden
ID: water droplets on a puddle.
Psaltery & Lyre 