A Promise of Wind

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