the poem from the water

somewhere around day nine
or ten
it all falls apart,

one of those days where you can’t
face the world with straight
eyes and there’s nothing

for it but to drive right at the sun, right
as it sets, like some
old cowboy in some old movie

off to some damn
rescue. or
to pray

the night holds
its own in borrowed starlight til
you can reach the river

and the morning sun
coming down through the first
of the new leaves.

trace footprints in wet sand.
tell yourself he loves you.
fish the poem from the water.

brooding

#RVA pipeline

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.