Sometimes the conscience leans like the most common

of trees along the shoreline, the protected

whole of what we treasure half exposed in the sun

like roots unbound from the shore’s widespread

erosion. What else can we do but tilt

into the gleaming abstracts of our own

reflections? What else but question the quill

of hope left flickering from what’s flown

its empty nest? Already the full day

of the world has streamed like vibrating

aknives of light through our prayers and introspection,

leaving our bare earth-worn fingers to seine

the conclusions of open sky, our taproot

loosened from the soul it was penetrating.

Barry Ballard (TX)  is the author of several collections of poetry, including, Plowing To The End of the Road (Finishing Line Press, 2002), which was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. His writing has appeared in Prairie Schooner, The Connecticut Review, Smartish Pace, and elsewhere.