RIVER RITES

RIVER RITES

 

The old Missouri writhes, brown and strong,

swollen with late spring rains;

silent but for cottonwoods. And birds.

Too muddy to mirror the heavens,

the river rolls toward evening,

disappearing in moonless night,

an artery silting up with age;

home to snapping turtles. And catfish.

 

Lewis and Clark followed her lightly

as she swayed around the bends

that became the border

between Kansas and Missouri,

when there were no states

except those of the mind. The river

was virgin, her boundaries unplowed,

her banks unhindered, unabridged,

formed only by laws of wind and water.

 

My life, like a river tamed, follows

the ways and means of Man more

than I’d ever imagined, but when I quench

all chatter and distance myself

from weather reports and safety quips,

the stock market and other pandemics;

when I sit empty-handed on a bench

by a bend in the River, I find a virgin moment.

There is silence, but for cottonwoods.

And birds.

Reviews

[Quinn Blackburn]

wow, beautiful, serenely grounding and a wonderfully woven tribute. great work!