from The Perfume of Leaving
The Garonne River, Auvillar, France
When I let the river answer
instead of the tolling bell
that measures each breath of my day—
instead of deep basses, chattering
grunts and squeals of frogs
that echo my busy thoughts—
When I let the river answer
instead of the wind fussing grasses,
sun targeting some things, leaving others in shadow—
When the cottonwoods sigh their blooms—
When beaver dams dry high on the banks—
When poplars scribble green across the sky—
ripples soften time's illusions,
wavelets lapping legato, largo
fluid and static, a center, balance restored
