`
For no particular reason
I have decided not to work on Sundays.
So sometimes, in the afternoons,
I drive down to the river.
Trudging through the snow
I lean over the railings.
They're steel and cold
And getting brown with rust.
I stand and listen carefully
For voices, chirps, caws, croaks.
I hear only the mumble of water,
And the wind through dry branches.
In the distance, the river
Knifes through its broad banks
Now whitewashed in snow
And scarred with bare trees.
In the distance, the river
Knifes through its broad banks
Now whitewashed in snow
And scarred with bare trees.
The snow on my sneakers melts slowly
Trickling in like a painful memory.
I try hard recalling one,
Almost desperately, to match the mood.
Almost desperately, to match the mood.
And I recall nothing:
No anguish, no hurt, no pain.
Dazed, I stare blankly
At the dark water flowing below.
It is too dark
For a boy my age.
`
Crystal Ridge, NY,
November, 2010
