Poems August Running

Spring River

the end of the window
look at the whirls once more
to see the grey roll and the pull
to the center and the sides
and the whirls
and the white
and the rocks and the mud
and the width to the green
and the branches
and the side of the
short banks
and the current pull
away to the center
it is not a standing
place
of water
it is not see the end
or the rock
see at nights and hear the
roll
and the spray
feel the mist
and hear the roar
looking
at a sheet of
white
and blue
seen once
is not seen twice

I can hear and feel it
water at day
and at night
slate with foam
why is it not the color
of the stones
the rest of the hill
clouds in paddle
blue

carry the water
from the lake
to the plate
under  rock
rumbles
shakes
and the cool
spray
one hundred miles
eleven years
of returns
that are not the road
traveled
pine branches
white
light ferns
under the pine roots
and sap
a new green
every year
a path through
the same forest
the same trees
the same brack
cloudless sky haze
white and blue
and spray
shapes from the crests
and the flow at the base

and at night asleep
to see the river
once more
the visage
the vision
the flow
from a friendlier place
far away
once away stays away

the water seeps through
and finds its friends
through the rock
a distant spot
changed nearly
nearby
not to change again
place time and river
would bring more change
stream
all day

I can feel the spray
and hear the rumble
of the water in the river
and see the source
feel the shake
never return to the vision
or visage
not let go
to go away
it follows the plate
finds its friends above ground and visits them
finds its friends at home
a home not far from home again
far enough
to know the place