Time and the river have always

their place in life

as the essential things

never to be brought home

in triumph or in sorrow;

never lost as they can

never be possessed;

and if neglected because

of the implacable urgency

of work, illness, tragedy,

or the foolishness

of having been forgotten,

they will again, in their own time,

loom large, with remembrance,

and potential.

As remembered, in the savage beauty

of overwhelming high water, winter’s end,

the brown god of swift,

devastating destruction, cleansing

the land of man’s encroachments and debris,

soon to sparkle with the splashing ducks,

the sweet innocence, of spring and summer.

The seasons portray time and the river

with an expectancy grown beyond

their joyous annual return,

not through some quiet grove,

nearly still, for hopeful contemplation,

but through bright, moving waters,

and their melody of uneven transparencies,

where the mysteries we have

come to know, or believe,

are always, always,

exceeded by those we desire.