.
The River Wins Like It Always Has
A long day, and the shadows so long
they merge with the trees that cast them:
the forest below as it is above.
A lonely stand of oak in drying pine
stretch tall and thin in the hot
summer dark.
The forest below as it is above,
like nature in reverse: wings striped blue,
folded flat, dusted bodies
on the earth.
A long year, and the shadows so long
they spill like oil from that damnable pit:
there are things in the soul that dig.
A deer tailed too long down
slate-feathered canyons clatters
in the distance.
The forest above as it is below,
sunlight in reverse: skin striped pearl,
old body young, tucked in silver
branches.
A long life, and the shadows so long
they have curled themselves inside:
vines pass through the body as the soul.
Honeysuckle sweet and deep, wild
without rain, blooms pink in the hot
summer dark.
There are things in the soul that dig:
vinegar, honey, blood, and rain,
moonflower eyes, and scrambling.
A long world, and the shadows so long
they soak heavy into groundwater:
the river wins like it always has.
The sun dries land and the moon
kisses dew like wine back
into its living.
The forest below as it is above:
oleander blossoms, woodbine berries,
birds and bodies balanced.
A long day, and the shadows so long
they tumble into the river and away:
Loam trembles under a gentle foot returned.
Hands glimmering with mica
paint the bird with silver,
starlight.
There are things in the soul that sink
like snaking oil from that damnable pit,
but the river wins like it always has:
red deer slow for nutsedge
at the creek.