The River

By Leo Weinreb

Upon the rushing wrinkles of the blue
came fists of yellow fairy-dust,
some hazy dots. But then a gust
of wind ripped down and churned
the surface to the bottom of the bed 
to tear anew the soil, rocks, and sand, the silt and rust. 
We saw the cycle of the river, just
one more cycle nature must go through.
A bicycle for me and one for you.

That memory of sunshine’s come and gone.
I scrape it from the edges of my mind, muddled and wrong –
Those twinkles aren’t the same ones we saw
deep in the waters not that long ago.
If I could scour the world, capture and find
those once-familiar balls of brightness 
filled with light and comfort
dancing on the river’s maw
would I feel whole again? Or… just regretful?

At dawn the rushing crinkles of new blue
sport puffs of golden fairy-dust,
some gentle spots. But then a rush
of wind tips down and stirs
the surface with the bottom of the bed
to bear anew the loam, the rocks and sand, the silt and must.
I see the cycle of this river, just
one more cycle nature feeds us through.
A bicycle for me.