surreptitiously
he squats beneath
his stone bridge
alone in the dark
like a hungry troll
who waits on a lost traveler
to stop momentarily
between her lies and his
as she peers into the mist
that waits below for her
in the ever-widening crevasse
(February 10, 2021)
subtext 
Thanks, I appreciate the comment. There is always more, yet this is all there is to this poem. It is, however, one of a projected series of 140 poems. Each one grows out of the one before, like crystals, or the infinite lotus growing from the sleeping Vishnu. (Okay, now I’m becoming pretentious). Thanks again for the comment.
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Hi! I absolutely adore your poem; its gentle and romantic and makes me wish there was more!
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