The Tall Cedars

One must live in the present, you said,
looking back, the flecked fins of river
washing blue into your hair, and
when the wind drew up,
black rain from the silver clouds.
June, maybe July, I suppose, longer than a year,
though, driving upriver along the Nith
time doesn’t pass, you say to myself —
There’s no way to hold,
regardless of the knuckled white upon the wheel,
how firmly the bodies, our waterskins, are held.
There’s only the river.
There’s only the green squadrons of clouds
dropping from the sky, changing shape as they near,
into the tall cedars.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s