Here’s the deal, poet, with cities
built by the falls of wide rivers,
these hard places where you unload
your cargo and portage the well-
worn path — life is not the flatboat
held fast by sun-rotted hemp. And
it’s not the bales of tobacco toted
by dark men naked to the waist,
glistening. Life is the river itself
pouring over the falls, dashed
to vapor on the rocks, recirculating
in mad whirls, releasing into the flow.
Close your eyes, my love, let me
tell you what I see — the mist
rising into rainbows over the plunge,
bubbles spinning past snapping turtles
sunning on logs, and the heron aloft
on sure wingbeats that slice the air
into so many shimmering inspirations.
- 87,823 hits
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