Two Poems
The river is a holy book
Each creek and every stream is a prayer of praise,
a sacred scroll unrolled and flowing downhill.
Every river is a holy book hardbound
in boards of sycamore, cottonwood, maple
an illuminated manuscript, gilt-edged
and glowing in early Autumn evening leaves.
Parables of snow melt, brook trout, pheromones,
psalms written in silt on rushes and sedges,
ancient stories told by caddisfly larvae,
punctuated with frog spawn, water-pennies,
drops of rain. Go down by the river, kneel down
on the ground, raise up your eyes, and read these words.
Softly as in…
Blue-spotted salamander eggs in a vernal pool,
reflecting April crescent moon. The breath of morning
meditation. The true sound of the Kokosing when
no one is listening. Down feathers from the breast of
a frightened sparrow. Petals of a newly-opened
waterlily. The color of lichens on sandstone,
moss on maple bark. Black swallowtail feet on your cheek
and eyelid. Ant frass in the hollow at the base of
a centuries-old oak. The call of a wood thrush on
a mossy log. The gray blurriness of woodchuck eyes
at the edge of a mown wet meadow. The red madder-
dyed weft of Afghan war rugs, woven by women’s hands.
Turkey vultures aloft on cadaverine breezes,
after the rain…
(for John Coltrane)
