My Life On Little River
I could never stop the flow of you
across my seasonal hands.
The way you bathed in sun;
the way the leaves rode
your blue back in heady speeds,
and the snow touched you
in feathers of vanishing.
I have thrown so many days your way
and watched them roll in a squander
of individual currents,
as I followed the small trail of you
to the distant countries
of my smallest prayers.
Everything I hold dear, Little River,
you have tossed
in a bowl of yellow,
or laced in blue greens and gray,
as softly as the fish eggs,
that you protect so roughly.
My words drop into your clay banks,
red with my wounds.
Your rain voice leads me to sleep.