Where the water was
Words for hope
I can’t stop thinking about the mud -- you know how dark it is,
how it is full of roots and wrigglers when the river goes on home -
at least to its latest channel. (and anything could change at any
time, it's best not to forget this.)
but still, how can mud be hot and cold, hard and slick,
open and unnavigable, all at once? the sun doesn’t
have much to say about it - just cranks up the shining,
doing what summer sun does best.
it is that time of year – you know the drill, it’s called
drying everything in sight. So after the sludge - the ground
cracks, like winter boots after long hard wet service,
with no particular attention.
then orchard grass and weeds sneak through. it's all another tangle,
and no place for a hike when the winding water wanders back
where it belongs, where butterflies sip the dregs, while
yellowjackets lie in wait.
now deer pick their way through, and worms and grubs
and moles and voles move below. tomorrow mud becomes rock,
then soil, then disappears; and forever the river goes
down, and down, and down, and clear.
Z.G.
