The once marshland again longs to fill itself
with water, and up in the mountains
among the shoulder blades of the earth
energy lies clotted behind the dams
awaiting surgery. Yesterday we drove
on dirt roads near the great river
and joyfully threw dust into the air.
Today the fog hangs thick and chilly
and trees hide in this mist like children,
half-seen. I long to walk with this hunger
feel the unharnessed moisture, the tidal surge
of our lives, know the sundry stories
the unruly consciousness
that sweeps us along.
With a rose in her hair
she has flown off, returned
to her island in the east.
The flowers, cut weeks ago, droop
and purple petals fall silently
onto the slough. Sentences, no,
entire sagas, remain untranslated
fragmented on an untethered isle.
It is the solstice, and downstream
hemmed between the levees, the river
masks itself in fog, seeking transformation,
people, and the others who make us human,
gather and watch the flotsam of our ordered lives
drift by on the river’s mirrored tongue.
Glances ricochet into the empty night.
The river speaks with a slow drawl,
pushes against the leveed banks.
