The River by Beate Sigriddaughter

Its strength declares wild green
indomitable presence, even across
the desert. It carves canyons, casts
capricious waterfalls. Nothing this wild
needs to be brave, or look for love,
just does what needs to be done,
with or without applause. It turns
obstruction into waterfalls and music
you cannot predict any more than
you could predict the jostle
of an intricate kaleidoscope.
It listens in the sun and whispers
eerie melodies of comfort
and approximate eternity.
I want to sing to it: flow, river, flow,
as though it made a difference
of indifference, the sultry patience,
thank you, life, for giving me this
strength to walk, these eyes, a pilgrim
among junipers and lilacs, dancing
lonely against blue, instead of stumbling
still against the wind of yesterday.
A kiss of the wind, a shadow sweeping
in applause. Quick memory of light
teases the side of fresh sap
into jewel-like brilliance. A hush.
A shimmer

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