the herons are larger
than i remember, brooding
in their tree-tops. they can be magnificent
when they choose. blue petals
stick up their button-heads
from the green of grass.
there is a new penny glowing
in the mud beside the path,
and a rusted railroad spike
half-buried. a lazy pair of geese
duck their heads in the shallows;
errant seagulls cry like children.
looking out, the current is swollen
with browns and river-smell.
i walk off the sore and the winter white,
sit on a rock in the sand and wish
for the sea. looking up,
there are few leaves as yet
and this, all of it, is a metaphor
for something. life should look
like it is made effortless.
the waters rush high and unknowing.
we too can be magnificent
when we choose.