poem for the end of winter

late March and the river is high.

Things happened that I could not

control. On my 24^th birthday  

my grandfather fell over and his

heart stopped beating. Meanwhile

the river rose and flooded the valley, 

bringing swans and black American 

mallards, a great blue heron 

balanced on one leg.

They say the moon controls the tides

but God controls the river. I do not

know God, but sometimes I want

more than anything to be able to pray.

Embarrassed by mortality, I thought

more and more of where I am going,

who I will be.

In summer we floated the river. 

All day I watched waxwings and

swallows and passed slowly. Perhaps 

what I really want is to let the river 

of my life rise and fall. I can be whatever 

the season wants of me, whether 

quiet swan or furtive swallow.

Things happen that I cannot control. 

Late March, the river is high.