Diana V. Spindler
I drained me to abandon the Hudson,
to disappear the cradle of childhood,
leave behind tepid sweetness of late spring,
the slow crescendo of crickets in June.
I squandered all the depth of that river
to plummet south of its end: Carolina,
where dirt roads are red as hell,
immortal insects roar,
and the moisture of summer seeps
through the deception of early winter darkness.
That river smoothes and swells
like flesh pulling taut with new life.
It bears the cycles of everything
in tiny brunette crests.
Down here is frantic life.
Even twigs follow you with their eyes,
and ardor is wound around a screaming god
who singly holds vain prayers, and no one doubts.
By the Hudson I swooned,
and prayed to easy lapping of rocks.
I wanted nothing more than the earth’s nutty aroma,
the deaths of trees
so I could view their rebirth in late March,
the river thawing and ushering away the ice,
silver fish glinting beneath once more.
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