The Goddess of the River


The goddess of the river speaks
in a language I don’t understand
so she finds another way to
make her meaning known
She speaks of all the life she knows
hidden deep beneath her
rippling sparkling surface
Fishes and plants of course but also
microscopic universes
where time moves at a different pace
and every kind of pain we know
finds its melting point

The goddess of the river swims
always downstream, even in her sleep
She carries babies to their mothers
and corpses to their graves
She yanks at the roots of trees
until they tumble into her waiting arms
She pays no attention to excuses
She has already listened to every one
Her justice flows, cold but fair

The goddess of the river is older than the mountains
and just that much younger than tomorrow

The Sun and the Moon


I caught the sun peering when it
thought I wasn’t looking
I’m not sure but I thought I saw the
glimmer of a smile

All suns explode, that’s natural,
That’s how they end
But every time it still comes as a shock
Explosions of that kind knock
everything off their course
Gravity and entropy stop to compare notes
then shrug and say, “Einstein was probably right.”

The light of the sun – once it implodes –
into a white dwarf – would be about the same as
the light of the full moon

The moon doesn’t need competition
The moon doesn’t need to be reminded
that her light is just a reflection
that she’s dry and cold and rocky
or that her unique gravitational pull makes our
waters rise and fall

It feels like each time the sun sets
he tells the other side of the world how much
he prefers them
and how he would just as soon not rise again
on this side of the globe

The moon, from out of nowhere,
every once in a while
races across the sky
to show us she is closer, and also able
to blot that lucky old sun from the sky


Already over

It feels like it’s already over, doesn’t it?
I know it does to me.
The sun still rises in the east, of course, but that’s all it does.
It does not warm or illuminate.
It does not sing a merry morning song.
It badgers and blisters, then stays above the fray.


I didn’t think the end would feel like this.
I thought there would be more noise and tears,
instead of all this emptiness.


Her Love

Her love comes from a place of mystery
natural, but not of this world
She taps her foot in time to
a song that only she can hear
and cries sometimes at nothing

Her love doesn’t live with other love
Her love lives alone
Sometimes she can see it
high in the sky
above even the stars

Her love is a moving target
Some things she remembers never were true
Other memories have surrendered to time
Memory’s loss is love’s gain

Her love goes into places
normally hidden by fear
and sees the beginning and end
of everything
Her love makes her laugh



Beware of hope

Hope – that thing that Emily covered with feathers – rises at the precise moment you determined that it doesn’t exist.
It takes the form of mythical creatures you abandoned to fantasy at some point in late childhood.
It whispers in a voice that is just beneath the threshold of human hearing.
It knows the names we call ourselves and hums old and vaguely familiar tunes in our unsuspecting ears.
Hope lurks as stealthily as the most committed thief.
It has more patience than any member of the human race.
It has weapons we won’t understand until after we are dead.
Hope knows every obstacle that stands between it and its fulfillment and is both stronger and smarter than any of them.

Beware of hope