This Water, This Rock and Dirt, This River
I was made by water. This river.
This erosion of rock and dirt. This water
making mud. I have seen the fish
that do not rise from this river’s murky
bottom. I have seen smokestacks
no longer puffing smoke. Have seen
the loon’s webbed feet pushing against
this current, its diving head, wanting
not to be seen. I have heard these birds
calling across this water, a widow’s
unveiled wailing to reach her husband,
this man standing alone in the fog in winter
waiting patiently on the river’s other side.
***
Everything Where I Have Left It
What is so different about this house
when it is dark? Which is how I prefer it.
When there is not so much to see.
The trees outside in shadow. The sky
not so stark and apparent. The mystery
of things unseen even just across this room.
What I know is right here remaining unchanged.
Everything where I have left it. Waiting
to be eventually thrown out. Like the dead.
Like how they came and took away my father
when it was time. When my voice into the phone
told them what had happened. When I said
my father has died. Is dead. How otherwise say it?
How outside it was still light out. How inside
everything had suddenly become so clear.
So certain. Like the water I brought back up
to the house from the river. The weight
of the glass in my hand. Such utter clarity
when I held it up to the light. The way the sun
shined through. And yes, made it sparkle.
What was visible that night aside from the stars.
Not the loons calling out across the river.
Not the heart alone in its own dark house.
***
I Did Not Hear the Loons Until Later
The bird on the buoy does not need to know
we are watching. Or that across the river
there is a small boat turned over on its side
for the winter. The fish are here with us
even if we don’t see them. When the water
makes a sound it is only to remind us perhaps
that it is moving, that sometimes the wind
changes the way we see it. When my father
finally died I did not hear the loons right away.
Only later. When I stood down at the docks
and looked. Then heard them first. Then saw
what was behind that sound. Which wasn’t human.
That cry. That calling out. But was the closest
to what I felt when I closed my eyes and decided
in the dark of night that I had seen enough.
***
When the Light Is Still Present but Fading
Each day begins in the dark. Night comes
when the light is still present but fading.
Across the river my father in bed sleeping.
Possibly dreaming. Sometimes talking
to those he counts among the already dead.
His own mother and father. An older sister.
All three of them waiting at the edges of dawn.
He stood above them all in their own beds.
Now they hover near I imagine watching.
Maybe even reaching out to touch his hand.
To say it’s okay, he’ll be coming home soon.
Until then my mother wakes up with the dark.
Already alone. But not prepared for what is
coming. A house on the water. And solitude.
The sound in her ear ticking away the silence.
When daylight rises it is always behind her.
The sun breaking through the trees. The river
slowly becoming bluer than it actually is.
***
Just Water
Out to dinner with my wife and kids
when the waitress asks us what we want
to drink. I am already drinking is what
my heart’s voice wants to tell her.
This is my water. I am a horse
at the edge of a river with his head
bowed in what can only be called prayer.