 |
| down river merrimack, nh |
A Promise of Wind
The gusts have not come
yet the ones they promised pushing
from the west or they have
and I didn’t pay
attention and I missed
them thinking they
were a passing heavy motor
vehicle a dump truck or a front-
end loader. Jobs
to do. I’ve been waiting distracting
myself for daylight to go out
into it all and listen to the river going
by going by going by with all her December
and January ice rising high enough
to the top of her thermometer so
that by the end of the day the ice
will be nearly gone and tipped over
the old dam that’s nothing now
of its original
purpose and if the water seems to
mock me
so be it I have feet and I can lift them
and bring them down hard enough
to fall
on my ass and slide toward
the memorial
gate the one with all the names
of the people brave enough to take
their havens to the edge
and toss them like ashes
like crystals
like paper
origami boats and yodas
the kind my son folded over
over over to let go of only when
he’s too old for those moments
putting away his childish things
like he was compelled to
simply by growing
up what pray did I miss
groping while I slid
toward the section
of the river that isn’t fenced
off, losing
my hat and mittens, tearing
my new coat
and the down inside floating
out on the wind once
again like it was almost
home
 |
| giving, returning merrimack, nh |
