You would have me be a river so you could say, This is what you are so this is what you do, and if you do not, you are wrong. You would have me be a river so you could say, You are doing that because of what you are, and your how-to book would be written.
I would be the river— and the soil, the stones the fish the bubbles the wind and sun…
I would be everything but you would have me be something, a river to skip stones over hit hit sink.
Tonight, I walk by the river and the moon is making a painting out of its reflection.
Perhaps I should have been the river; how beautiful she looks there in the moon’s affection.
Yet here is the wind again, it fills my arms with flight— and the grass beneath my feet is surely growing!
A grey leaf falls into the water in slow motion. It was green once, and gold.
The water ripples, then forgets.
The leaf is crinkled like bed sheets, its violated edges cut the air as if its being there was criminal.
Just as oblivion becomes eternal, the current seizes it, it slips around the bend, and is gone.
Yet here comes another leaf, then another, then a branch…
The leaves keep falling and my eyes are rivers.
Perhaps these are the last lines I will write for you—