the river doesn’t follow a straight line
pulled by the moon, but roams
like a coyote following root
skin and scent.
ice jams push sludge-brown waters
(on a screaming path), uprooting
one-hundred-year-old spruce trees and
cutting the silt bank to its knees.
we count our blessings. shore up with big rocks
muscle against the inevitable, learn
to soften. adapt.
And this summer, you turned eight.
smarter. taller. faster. still freckled.
learning to skate and paint.
are you who you once were?
a fish pulled from the net slides
through my slippery hands, gulls wheel
the sky goes rust and
everything, it seems is
carved in sand.
everything is carved in sand (Barbara Rodgers)