Padding along among roots and stobs in shade,
I take the north-slope path to see old friends:
red huckleberry and mountain hemlock
subsisting on nurse logs amid moss; vanilla
leaf, false Solomon's seal, sword fern, bracken,
sorrel, twinflower, wild ginger, salmonberry,
maiden-hair fern, ninebark, viney maple.
They seem well; it's steep shade and deep
mouldering duff. Enough rain has alighted
upon this slope for centuries to build tall firs,
straight cedars, twisted, hoary, wrangling maples.
Yet the riverbed below seems troubled, shrunken.
Stones I never see have suddenly shown
themselves, shouldering past dried caddis cases
and empty snail shells, standing in desiccated air.
Nothing can stand still. If it were to do so
absolutely, I could not see it; if I
were to cease scanning, I could not then see;
therefore change is all. These were my thoughts
as I walked a dog, watching my year run down.
Apples were falling; I chose one to eat.
Hips blushed fiercely; I stuffed my pockets full.
Ash and maple and willow turned and turned.
Restless mice and voles risked their all
for seeds. We reached the river; a trout rose, an
osprey plunged; they met and flew as one.
An osprey will turn a trout head first in flight,
you know -- for improved aerodynamics. I
disbelieve it; surely the bird is kind.
It turns the trout to show it what's to come.
The musk-ox smells
in his long head
my boat coming. When
I feel him there,
intent, heavy,
the oars make wings
in the white night,
and brave woods are close
on either side
where trees darken.
I rowed past towns
in their black sleep
to come here. I passed
the northern grass
and cold mountains.
The musk-ox moves
As they grew older,
the land which had grown wheat
washed down the hill,
and the river
carried the land into the sea.
The priest with the horned
mask, who brought meat
from the altar,
turned into a bird
and flew among the mountains.
The people of the markets
who touched their heads to the ground,
changed into clumps of weed
among the gutters
of the bare hill.
A galley which carried wine
Across the river
geese arrive
by a moon's light,
setting its image
dancing beneath
trees — and so
we know joy
though the world
has no use for us.
I thought, as I drove
by the river's edge —
I might do better
by mistaking
this sharp curve.
Wading that far
river, turning over
stones for caddis
flies unborn,
you met no one —
not even me.
I knew by the look
you gave me, then,
I had made again
some sad mistake —
Yet looking back,
I remember only
walking by the river,
bending over pools
for pretty stones.
I moved our bed
to the river's edge.
The moonlit waters
flooded my heart
all night.
The deepening river
flows toward sea:
we may here
sit together
without words.
Couples pass, smiling
despite hard rain.
On the therapist's couch, I wonder aloud what it would be
like to bundle all the pain I’ve ever experienced together
with any future pains, to feel them all at once and be
done with it. I mean everything, from the hangnails,
slivers, cuts, and bruises, to the pain of lost relationships
and death. I think how overwhelming it would be, how
completely unbearable. Still, if getting it all over in one
great rush was possible, would it be worth it or would it
kill me?
a river
overflows its banks...
silence
This city was not a matter for men,
But its river was, as were those who therein dwelt
Much to the surprise of its waters.
If cobalt were the purest of colors,
The Tigris would be not the river of purity,
But the form of purity racing to the sea,
There where it dissolves among
Shipwrecks and algae,
And the great bull whales
That swim southward should the world of man
End there,
There where dawn, no longer part of the night,
Is born.
The emperor thus knows
That in his birth there was a river,
A dream of sweet waters