Upriver



Whitecaps on the water
cut between the season’s embers,
the wind whipping down from the north,
breathing cold

Rumor has it that
death and sleep are but distant cousins –
watch a streetlight strain itself to illuminate
an overcast morning

A lady in work boots walks,
coffee in hand, her hair blown in a gust,
determination defining each stride she takes...
making an impression in the moment

Clouds align themselves in rows
marching across the valley behind a windswept flock
as it folds back upon itself not once, but twice –
an orderly dance through chaos

There is this illusion that
there is nothing left when we are no longer here to see it,
much as we assume that everything we witness
must therefore be real

A hedge burns, flame red, where it watches
over a lane set aside for things that don’t really matter
to pass along, devoid of expectation
and external observation

But seasons weren’t placed here
to be like street signs, laid out
to assist distracted drivers
(albeit it is a good conceit)

And there are those who are dying,
even as I write these words,
no less touched by them than those
who live on, never reading them

Each wave, ripped by the
winter’s coming chill, shares so much
with those that follow it...
and so it must be.