by Peter Grandbois
The river in June, flush with snow melt,
teaches the pines how to pray
October, and gold leaves swirl about rocks
painting the particular solitude of past landscapes
In December’s deep freeze, the river whispers
from beneath snow of the need to forget
The crack and snap of ice in April remind
us not every ending is gentle
Each day in between my shadow blurs
the water’s edge, a raven perched in my throat
My hands branch from the long night of anger
and grief, and then it happens—
The river takes me with the morning dew
to the dream place, and I enter the kingdom
I bow, a forgotten smile on my lips
Here where my spirit wanders freely
I no longer know where to go
Peter Grandbois is the author of fourteen books, the most recent of which is Domestic Bestiary. His plays have been performed in St. Louis, Columbus, Los Angeles, and New York. He is poetry editor at Boulevard and teaches at Denison University in Ohio. You can find him at www.petergrandbois.com.
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