BROOK

It’s running again, that irrigation ditch

curving through our property,

a combination of snow melt

and a purposeful opening of the head gate.

We know it‘s spring though,

how can we not know,

what with the randy birds

and the tulip/jonquil foray?

It’s like the first time we stood here,

though so much has happened

in the time between,

it’s like the first time,

maybe seven or eight years,

i.e. there’s no colt along the fence

up on its hooves hollering next to the meadow

turning green and grass tall,

but it seems the meadow’s waiting

just like we are, leaning

over the railing of the deck,

you brushing back colored hair,

mesmerizing down at the swirling water.

The wind’s so forceful off the mountains

your voice’s beginning to fade,

beginning to be nearly inaudible

as on a tape recording in the 1960’s,

so much so I can hear myself saying

what I always have wanted to say

as your voice is drifting off into….

well, a whole philosophy,

something very simple

such as the loud sound of rushing water.

As always, though, it’s the smell:

water, air, mountain, clover,

so strong up our nostrils

we shiver and push away,

almost but not yet in heat.

 
 
 
 
 

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