Preparing to Bloom in the Spring

There is about ten feet of whitewater in this town,

And only three of it is on the way down.

It's brown thereafter, almost black

After a few feet more.

Two feet account for the first year here;

Two for the year when I first encountered

Homer through Keats.

The remaining three for the two I spent

Solitary, reading and writing

For myself—

For the melancholy, nostalgic, and activist types,

Sentimental tellers of truths and corruption.

Now I am not writing as the McDonalds cup

Or the Walmart bag captured by the gulf.

I am not even the cars gliding above

On the bridge that runs one direction

With a gps in the windshield.

I am not the birds either.

And after the whitewater darkened, when I was

Tossed into the muck after sliding down the grime,

I let the current wash me

And accepted my darkwater brethren—

More confused than ever, but willing

To let the late winter current—biting and perilous—

Carry me upstream to the City upon a hill

With some more rapids, with more whitewater

And more turbulence and fun. 

I am the fish that you can't see under

The dark stream with dull scales and broad gills

Swimming to each side continuously

Until I plunge down the next falls

Around the bend blocked by a cluster

Of trees on an embankment

Preparing to bloom in the Spring.