If we could sit by the river and watch
the alders age.
They're leaning against a backdraft
and the fire of my anxious thoughts.
One saying says we should enter life without
fear, without caution, without doubts.
But it seems whenever we listen to plaques
we end up wrecking some possible paths.
I know the interplay of shadows falling
from the clouds, when light and dark switch
back as simply as the time. I know
we'll no longer speak to each other. There's
history there, short and stunted. It sits
up in dreams and bangs pots and pans. Cymbals
are symbols, quietly crashing crescendos.
You won't haunt me for much longer.
That alone is sad enough.
If only the river would calm its flow,
we could watch the alders. They'd be still
as facets in a sapphire,
reflecting back themselves.
Alder bank
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