Down in the hollow next to the flowing water
amid the stand of grey birches
we spoke of last hurrahs
and balances of excess.
The soil
so thick and dark
could grow anything
nourish and bring any possibility to fruition
but sometimes the forces raise the river
and wash away everything
everything but the open grid of the bridge.
It is designed that way
not to resist the rising tide
the crushing torrent
that rips the roots from the earth
and washes away the richest soil.
Yet somehow, we cling to
we hang on to
we have driven ourselves so deeply that
sometimes we simply still are there
rooted along the banks waiting for
the river to rise again
and we dig our toes into the rocks
and wait for the last hurrah
and the balance to come again.