Cold River

Poem No. 143

Thursday evening we went to the river, to watch the sun set on the longest day of the year. And though the air was warm after a hot afternoon and the Solstice sky was filled with clouds rimmed in fire, when I bent to drag my fingers through the water it was icy cold to the touch.

There is snow still melting in the mountains, and here, in these first days of summer, our river carries memories of winter out to the ocean, from where it will return to us again on a frigid wind, at the next Solstice.

The river’s touch reminded me of this poem I wrote late one February, as the ice along the river banks began to break up:

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Cold River

As winter loses grip
and shards of ice 
break free to spin,
languid in the current,

this river speaks
in creaks and groans,
and tells us many things.
Can you hear it?

Does your heart still know
the secret language?
Can it hold the poem offered
by this wise and ancient soul?

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I hope the turning of the seasons finds you well,
~ Adam

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