Poem of the Month

Metaphysical Rivers

Not so much the reflection of Narcissus.

Perhaps he drowned in the Yakima, though they say pond.

A still place—better for preening.

To kneel and mull over the state of your past, present, and future.

Is there anything for distraction?

A new gold record set for the discus, or perhaps the pole vault?

A tenth of a second cut from the marathon record by those who train their bodies to go for a second, a third, a fourth wind?

We grow into our skeletons as these toiling waters carve rocks.

Finally erosion becomes river-bottom, a sandy mud filled with milfoil.

The one who tried to touch a mirror called water drowned.

According to legend the would-be seer must look up to the world and not down.

Yet the grouse rises up only to land a short distance away.

Go reconcile your age at the intersection of self-love and self-death.