A sonnet about what it is like to be a river who doesn't want to be one.
|This year you begin as compacted snow.
Cold. Unmoving. Fallen from a great height.
Uncomfortable sunlight makes you flow
Down, down, downward into the unknown night.
You bemoan your trajectory, seeking
A grander course, or not to move at all.
Not to mention, you can’t stand just eking,
So, to spite life, you up your rate of fall.
You expand your prowess: now a river.
Nigh impossible to stop, you rush down.
With frightening force, not much a forgiver,
You head directly towards the small town
Which receives you, in its desperation
For cleansing, for refreshment, and power.
You’ve brought food, employment, recreation,
Given it life: your tribute hour by hour.
Now remember when you were downhearted?
Imagine if you had never started.