I wanted to see it move, that one.
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I noticed a sour smell in the clearing above
after the leaving the path. I must go down to the river
for the soothing movement heals the holes in me
for a bit, I hope. Here, this reach is calmer,
almost placid are the green waters here.
They remember their roiling rolls they passed through,
now resting, though, the roar remains there.
I throw resentful little rocks, in envy
of its grandeur. Must I make my mark, even here?
It takes them all, my tiny angers, with ease,
pebbles plopping, heard, felt, and gone.
Again I long to speak with the river-king.
But I have nothing to say. Finally, the birches are turning.
This one lets go over this left bank a leaf
in yellow and orange, like the setting sun through smoke,
falling ashes of another ancient other
out of sight, out of mind, burning
all those hard won hundreds. Ages, now dust.
That leaf falls to the water. Slowly starts
to move. Caution, tentative, pausing, hesitance,
each nudge a tick further, winding between
and around the stones it goes. I'm watching calmly,
waiting for that moment when it finds its way out
and into the flow, the journey of a lifetime beginning
even in its twilight days. But now,
oh, no, it's stopped. Rocks blocking
its way, stopped dead in its tracks, stuck.
And was I so silly as to root for a tiny leaf?
Did I see my own aging head in its face?
It took all I had, not to bend down and free it.
Right then, I wanted to feel a sob,
a tear to fall, for the river to carry and lose,
but none came. Besides, I saw another
by the bank across, falling speeding, surging,
and it disappeared out from my view ahead,
while my first leaf sat, wondering why.
And barely beyond my feet, many more
Of the same fate. It's no sadness, I know.
I guess I just wanted to see it move, that one.
