Breakwater​

 

All spring, I watched the river
hesitate at its own edges, test
the ice’s thinning patience. Then, later,
geese returned to stitch the sky with motion.
What teaches the frozen to loosen,
the lost to begin again.
I feel steady when I am in your arms, and steady
when I am alone. (I did not know this
about myself.) Here, snowmelt
strips the fields to simple color
as my thinking clears with cold air. I’m reading
about departures that never finish,
and all those who turn back once,
and once only. But this
does not belong to us. In October evenings,
even the darkest water holds light. I
close my eyes against the wind,
let sleep take me somewhere green.
Where a woman climbs from shadow
without looking behind her
and mistakes the sun for forgiveness.