Silver Springs


at grandmother’s home in the desert,
the house and swimming pool drew themselves up proudly,
elevated above the dusty ground,
and I was a small king
standing at the edge of the splintery deck,
peering through the dry slats


the burning light would gleam on the glass pitcher
grandma used to brew sun tea
it glowed like a potion
from the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge –


lizards would scurry from end to end,
given breath by the sun,
and if we stepped on their tails,
they would snap off
the lizards would escape
and regenerate forever


the house was cool and quiet,
shadowy, not haunted,
but the crystal and the stone swans
seemed to hide,
hide with their private magic


when it snowed in winter,
we would capture our fingers in gloves
and run across the land like it was the surface of the moon
and take turns falling into the snow-covered bushes
face first, arms spread out like angels,
and I would imagine that the desert snakes were beneath me,
conferring secretly





About the Author

Ben Fisher lives in Seattle, Washington, and teaches German and Spanish.