I have walked from river's end to end,
a slow companion to the light seagulls
that circle overhead
and I have stood still above the bend
that separates the foot from distant hulls,
to fill my eyes with flying sails' wings spread.
I have watched them many times repair
the far shore's curve around the sun
and hold it there ensnared
until provoked they drop midair,
instinct with seaward gravitation
and angry claws declared—
their mutiny a gold crazed rout
that tears the cargo from its hold
and scatters it about.
I am not old
and yet, when night brings me to town,
I forget their wings and drown.
AFTER THE STORM
That morning, after the storm,
everyone gathered about the tree
and marveled at its fall:
the body leaning gently on one arm,
its mighty head now cushioned by deep
branches, seemingly asleep.
"You wouldn't think a storm," one said,
then broke off, staring at the fruit
that never would be eaten red
and sweetened by the sun, or set
in jars and slowly left to cool,
the ripening years ahead gone, too.