On a Sunday, Mid-March

 

 

On a Sunday, Mid-March

 

Spring ice has dislodged the caught

branch pinched in the middle of the dam

 

since last spring.  & it was all winter stuck up through

the viscous-thick water, both paused

 

opportunists: the lodged drop-off from god-

knows-how far off, or what tree misses it,

 

is in its decline and the bitter

months have halted its decay.  The river,

 

her back to the wind, takes her chances

& rises up the hump with all the motion

 

she can muster, and drop by drop she turns

solid.  It is probably the only time

 

she will ever be able

to roost, & to touch the clutch of the wood

 

like a lover.  & then all the daughters will come

to understand, being summoned

 

to this spot, to pause, to be a globule of caught

breath, & the duration of it will be her

 

glory.  & true, her ultimate undoing. 

I didn’t see the ice-

 

out, or even the log let go.  The crest

of the dam is thick with today’s rush of rain

 

& sudden melt.  The river has risen, will

continue to rise.  & just nearly

 

out of sight, that branch, the tip of it

treading, the speed of the grime-white

 

foam giving it a brief aged beard, where only

a day or two ago it was all thick in

 

ice & snow,

colder then

 

& so committed to the holding, the OH!

(inhale.) holding.