Saturday, March 19, 2011

poem for the end of winter


late March and the river is high.

Things happened that I could not
control. On my 24th 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.

5 comments:

  1. Krystin, this is one of my favorite things I've ever read.

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  2. i like this. almost more than i like you.

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  3. I love this one, Krystin.

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  4. this needs to be published and read.

    ReplyDelete