[52] DOS RIOS (IX): michele Connelly
In winter, everything's yellow
but the willows. The grass goes
gold and the weeds brittle into
smooth yellow stalks; even the river
seems golden. It's murky, in a golden
sort of way that's almost clear,
almost not. Sunlight filters through,
there's a gold rope net rippling in shadow
along the bottom
Before, when all I could think of
was how poor I was, poverty in currency,
friends, my poor family, my poorer self
I was busy with the worries of the world.
The river doesn't know them;
that's why I come here.
She treats them like a stranger,
the new person in town with slick talk,
a long handshake and the twitch of a smile
that makes you want to keep moving.
The river is golden. There's always water;
it's long gone and here again, moving
all the while. In a little while
the sun will drop and light
will stream through the trees
across the river, which aren't golden either
but don't know it yet.
but the willows. The grass goes
gold and the weeds brittle into
smooth yellow stalks; even the river
seems golden. It's murky, in a golden
sort of way that's almost clear,
almost not. Sunlight filters through,
there's a gold rope net rippling in shadow
along the bottom
Before, when all I could think of
was how poor I was, poverty in currency,
friends, my poor family, my poorer self
I was busy with the worries of the world.
The river doesn't know them;
that's why I come here.
She treats them like a stranger,
the new person in town with slick talk,
a long handshake and the twitch of a smile
that makes you want to keep moving.
The river is golden. There's always water;
it's long gone and here again, moving
all the while. In a little while
the sun will drop and light
will stream through the trees
across the river, which aren't golden either
but don't know it yet.
This entry was posted
on 27.11.04 at sábado, novembro 27, 2004.
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