River of Stones

                            I once knew a poet.  She was

                            a black velvet bag

                            full of diamonds.

                            Glimmering, she told me,

                            “Hold firm the river in your arms.

                            Let the water flow like words

                            churning through your fingers.

                            Pace yourself by breathing. Feel

                            fresh water’s wheel press against your

                            chest, the pulsing taps on your body

                            for a change. Stand firm to breathe.

                            Do not pretend to celebrate.

                            Listen gently to the eddies

                            and their every little hug.

                            Your lungs will grasp the cold.

                            Your feet will intercede.

                            Rocks underwater will

                            laugh at your attempts

                            to reach the river's knobby banks

                            for stillness. You will be

                            turned aside, your feet will

                            not be sure of who you are.

                            You will not know

                            your own rhythms.

                            Stand firm to the river

                            and she will bend to you.

                            She will arch her back against

                            your tender knowing and

                            whisper you downstream toward

                            a scented grove of autumn trees;

                            the passing flash of brook trout;

                            the hurriedness of seasons;

                            cold marrow of the water;

                            the aptitude of trees; the

                            secrets of cold stones …”