Not everything is sharp-edged, roped with worry or
shaken by the sight of winter’s familiar greying
as it gathers a curtain of chill, soon
to dissolve in staccato of raindrops.
A wool-bound fisherman at the river knows this,
and those nodding as they clip along the river walk
and the dogs that collide with me, all glad noses and tails
before they strain toward seagulls far from sea
that traverse this other water throughway.
I can’t help but be happy. I’m stuffed with nourishment
of wing and leaf, damp and moss, the wind a soft slap
on my cheeks, a tweak of muscles and bones.
Late light crystallizes the far horizon as I go.
November flows to the south where
waterfalls release the hurrying. These hills
settle deeper into irrevocable green.
It’s a lesson that comes when we see it,
the seeping brightness inside torrents,
rich mud snugged to asphalt and cement,
minty scents of winter with smoky autumn.
I am given this balm, ancient reassurance
as the river wends its way through wood and field.
There is kind remembrance of winters that have shone,
and will shine, and this poultice of rain and platinum clouds.
And, too, a daily circling up with love despite
tribulations, which one by one will
fall to earth and water,
stone and ash beneath our feet.
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