To be a river,

must one be far-reaching in

length and breadth, depth and

strength?

and leap –

clear and cool and bright –

from glacial, mountainous

source to ocean’s salted

mouth?

or slowly cleave  –

with swing and sway of hip,

in muddied brown gyration –

through lush, green riotous

jungle?

interrupt, perhaps,

yawning sands, borders, self –

blue, yellow, and white –

to quench a sighing desert’s

throat?

Or can a river unfold,

twisting and unbroken,

from distant blue horizon,

over curling sea of unshorn

grass;

a ribbon of pink and winking

tourmaline that ripples about

one’s toes and spills

down,

down,

down

past white-framed glare of hatch

deep-set into the hill’s upturned

cheek,

to fill the house enshrined below –

secret, tomblike –

its kitchens, corridors, occupants,

all…

A river of submerging,

of inevitable

drowning?

 

— C.Birde, 7/19