She pulls herself up and goes down to the river
down to the river that was.
She watches intently the litter of dry bed
memory of flowing, a glinting.
She takes off her shoes, presses her toes to
sand, loose rocks and twigs.
Her soles bear down and heels dig promise:
Ill not forget how you flowed.
loss of the waters, the cheat.
But soon all her weather achieves a full peak
salt-searing, rages a storm.
Her atmosphere heaves, thunders and bellows,
shaking the ground at her feet.
And when the storm settles, ebbs, she relaxes
into in a crux of its passage.
A breeze of soft breath awakens the trees, they
speak and she hears their fine murmurs.
And there in that cradle, she bathes in the river
bathes in the river that was
until she is cleansed by the broken dust pieces and
light, filled up in those shallows.
Then sky, like a sea, drifts airy and she
turns and swims, broad backstrokes.
And longing as any a fish could wish freedom, she
purposes off to the brine.
The sky, finally shadowed (its edges like birds)
swoops to her earth from that mind
and circles her there, its wings lifting her
higher than clouds in their aeries,
high up to the thought, the thought that once was
cumulus. Thought. Of the river.
© Copyright 2007 Susan M. Botich