by Marg Walker
A helium balloon the first time
slipping upward into impossible blue.
Fistfuls of perennial he-loves-me-
he-loves-me-not; pitiful, really.
of a spend thrift God.
Work boots and, every now and then,
Fingertips and also, of course,
What I dreamed you, repulsed,
held dripping from your hand.
String theory, which is a candidate for the theory
of everything, which nobody understands.
Marg Walker is a life long writer and student of poetry who is especially drawn to lyrical work with a strong story to tell. Her poems have appeared in Wilderness House Literary Review, Page and Spine, ArtWord Quarterly, The Minnesota Monthly, and Cairns Art Journal.