with psalter in hand
the river secure in her fecundity
ankle deep at times,
nothing along its wild banks,
no children playing,
no old men sleeping.
where the trees
wear capes of soft green linen
and breaks in their boughs
bark like pistols at wolves.
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there is a valley,
a quiet glen, a hidden place,
the source of the stream.
listen for the voices
long gone and far
outside of the ring of fire,
now only remembered by a scar
on the ground and
the debris of their labor,
they hid the betrayal.
with psalter open
i come to the river
to stand baptized
a wet late season disciple,
to listen to the songs sung among
the ruins of the feeble efforts
to pull out of the earth meaning
from beneath the slag heaps
of theft.
i felt like a broken rife.
and sat still, alone, for hours
to catch a star that shoots.
but i only saw one
and not wishing to waste it
or worry how to spend
my new found wealth,
i stayed and dreamt by the river
a wee might longer.
