The Meadow 2014 Literary and Art Journal - page 7

Meadow 7
by Nan Becker
The river a shimmer, a trick of light atop green tow,
blooms sideways, ripples that answer the wind’s calling.
Eases then, when enamel still, yields as if it’s lost sight
of its persuasion, knowing neither trouble nor fatigue.
It does not seem to bother with breath but waits—suddenly
a great believer in surprise. Waves, the “theys” follow,
pools of themselves, silent shadows that move like an old
sadness changing its mind, gentled by passing—life after life
concurring to go through, to go on, all that went before
we met and after left, guessing though guessing, none of it
means terrible things, or joyous—we appropriate life gone,
unsentimentally, none of it meaning harm, although it does,
did, and like a bird’s tip-toe,
, it calls. Hear it hear
what would be here. Hear the downy drum behind a robin’s
hear the whomp of a heron flying low over a river
that streams a stone. Who would guess whatever we had
was separate.
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