Kory Wells

On a Ferry South of Oslo


Tonight my daughter sleeps on the North Sea
and I, so far away in Tennessee,
at one time would’ve feared for her, dark wisp
of youthful solitude in foreign depths.

But how her postcards home have glowed. New friends
and folklore, craggy mountains, villaged vales.
A lush country. Near Flam she even glimpsed
a cow-tailed huldra in the troll-logged mist.

In the broad face of delight, who’s to say
what’s mystery or miracle or myth?

I am an acolyte of her enchantment.
The gospel is a jar of stones she gathered
on a North Sea beach and carries now,
their solid heft at odds with breathless glass.